Storiesonline.net
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                         An Episode of Michaels
                                by jfinn

Copyright© 2006 by jfinn


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Description: All Michaels are grey in the dark.

Codes: MF slow humor rom cons
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[This story was submitted in one piece by the author. It has been divided into multiple chapters to provide compatibility with wider range of browsers, so chapter limits have no meanings. Storiesonline]

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Chapter 1


"Please Elizabeth, you're my last hope," she begged, "You know I'm a rotten cook and you actually like doing that kind of crap. I wouldn't care if it was just our friends—they're used to my tuna casseroles, but Bradley invited half his office including his boss, and my staff decided to come too so I want this party to be really special.

"Let me see if I've got this right. Your caterers cancelled because they were shut down by the Health Department." I laughed. "Damn Mel, you really can pick them. What are their names again? Botulism-Я-Us?

I already knew I was going to say yes, but it's in the sister's handbook that you can't agree to do your sibling a favor until the proper amount of torture is applied. You can look it up.

"It wasn't the Health Department it was the INS, some green card thing. Christ, I hate you!" Hmmm, apparently Mel wasn't in the mood to see the humor in this yet.

"And telling me this is going to convince me to help out, how?"

"Yeah, right, right." Mel may not have much of a funny bone, but she's no dummy. "What I meant to say is that you are the sweetest, kindest, most generous sister in the whole damn world and your butt is not too big no matter what Mother says."

"When did Mom say I had a fat ass?"

"Elizabeth!"

Enjoyable as this exploration of my sadistic side was, I figured she'd keep whining until I agreed to help, so I put both of us out of our misery and told her I'd bail her disagreeably perfect tush out once again. Then I hung up and called my more off than on boyfriend, Adam, and cancelled our plans for a picnic the next day. He wasn't exactly what you'd call sympathetic—and I wasn't exactly what you'd call apologetic—so one thing led to another and when I hung up the phone I got the feeling that would be the last time Adam and I made plans to do anything together.

This didn't bother me as much as the romance novels say it should and that got me to wondering why I'd even bothered going out with the guy in the first place. Well actually, I knew why—he was fantastic looking, reasonably witty and a little bit better than average in the sack. Normally this should have added up to a great time had by all, but lately he'd also been moody, inattentive and most importantly AWOL from my bed. He said it was work and I believed him—especially since I'd gotten a good look at his new CPA, Marissa, who looked a lot like Wonder Woman without the cape. He was working all right only I was the one getting the business. It was time to face it, Adam and I were over and we had been for a couple of months now. Mel's dilemma just finalized the break.

So, I cried for about five minutes and then got bored with the whole pity party routine and started thinking about my options. You have to get right back on the horse after you've been thrown, at least that's what everyone says. The only thing was I hadn't been riding anything lately and that was getting to be a big issue. I was horny and if I was honest, the only remotely appealing thing about a picnic with Adam had been that eventually we'd finish eating and clear up the mess and then there'd be nothing left on that blanket to keep us from stretching out for a little sex al fresco. Now that possibility was gone.

There was a glimmer of hope though. Mel and Brad had a lot of friends—a lot of single, male friends—some of whom were bound to be at the party the next night. Of course that didn't mean I could just pick one and jump in the nearest closet for a little sound and fury signifying coming—though to be honest the thought did have some appeal—but it would be a possible way to find, if not Mr. Right, than at least Mr. Next. It might not be exactly what I needed, but it would be a step in the right direction. And anticipation really can be half the fun.

On this happy thought, I retired to my bed with the single girl's best friend, a pint of Ben and Jerry's best. I gorged myself on Cherry Garcia and fell into a sugar-induced coma dreaming of large, dark haired men with big ice cream cones.

Life goes on. The next morning I arrived at my sister and brother-in-law's new house with recipes and groceries in hand, because not only can't she cook, Mel shops for shit too. After that I spent the day wrist deep in pate and smoked humus, tripping over Larry the Lhasa and seriously contemplating the unfairness of a world that doesn't let you hog tie and gag three year old nephews who crawl up your legs and demand to play horsy when you're draining a steaming pot of shrimp.

But that was earlier. Now it was an hour away from company. The dog was shut up in the boys' room and Brad had taken the heir and the spare over to his mother's. Mel and I had shoved all the dirty pans in the dishwasher so everything was spic and span. Well except me. I looked like a refugee from the food fight in Animal House.

Mel had managed to sneak away a half-hour before and take a shower and now it was my turn. I'd known I wouldn't have time to go back to my apartment and change so I'd brought everything I needed with me to transform this dirty duck into a swan. I needed to be quick though, there was a big thunderstorm rumbling off in the distance and no way did I want to be caught in flagrante denekked when the power went off, which I was pretty sure was going to happen since the lights were already flickering. I was just about to make my escape from the kitchen when Mel walked in all spanking clean and sexy in a tight red dress that looked mighty damn familiar.

"Hey, that's mine!"

"Yeah, thanks. I really like the way it looks on me." She patted her round little bum and smiled smugly.

I glared, "And what am I supposed to wear?"

Mel shrugged. "Beats me, but I have a whole closet upstairs—knock yourself out." She walked over to the fridge and opened up the freezer. "Oh Hell!" As if to punctuate the curse, a clap of thunder echoed outside in the distance.

"What's wrong now?" I asked.

"I forgot about the ice maker," she bitched. "It isn't hooked up yet. We need to make another trip to the store."

"Call Brad and have him stop on his way."

"Can't. Trevor played U-boat with his cell in the toilet yesterday. It's toast."

Trev is the above-mentioned nephew. He's one of the reasons I've decided to never have kids. The other is his year old brother, Ben.

"Oh, well that's not too bad," I smiled evilly. "But at least you're already dressed. I'll get fixed up while you're gone."

This was my way of wiggling out of going myself, which I was pretty sure had been the next thing coming out of her mouth. I love my sister, but she's too damn good at delegating chores she doesn't feel like doing. Besides, she should know better than to steal my clothes.

There was another rumble outside and the first drops of rain started to spatter against the window over the sink. I pretended I didn't notice and stared at Mel until she gave in.

"Okay," she sighed. "I'll go. Bradley should be home in about a half hour if he can shut up Dorothy long enough to escape."

I nodded sympathetically, I liked Mel's mother-in-law well enough, but lord that woman could talk. Dotty was a terrific grandma though, especially since all she had to work with were the spawns from Hell.

"I should be back before him," she continued as she grabbed her purse and keys. "If not, would you remind him the liquor is still down in the cellar?"

I nodded and she reached for the door just as a huge clap of thunder lit up the sky. We both jumped and then with a nervous smile she ran out to her car before the next one could hit.

It was pouring by the time I made it up the stairs. I jumped in the shower and scrubbed down in record time. A grab of my purse and a few minutes later I was in full war paint. Since I was officially back in the battle I figured I needed all the weapons of mass seduction I could muster.

Not that I was seriously deficient au natural, I had eyes—two of them, both big and blue—and those babies let me know why my father says he's lost years of sleep thinking about the looks he's seen men give me. Still, it didn't hurt to stack the deck, so I put triple coats of mascara on my already lush black lashes, brushed my dark hair until it fell into a gleaming cloud around my shoulders and accentuated my full lower lip with a pale pink lipstick that I fervently hoped would live up to it's name, Kissable.

That only left one weapon to choose and it wasn't armor. I'd always thought the Indians had the right idea when it came to sartorial standards in the fields of conflict—lots of paint, very little clothing. Luckily this was one of the few things Mel and I were in total agreement about. Even though she was an old married lady (Only twenty-eight, but to my tender twenty-five years that was ancient.) she still subscribed to the, if you've got it flaunt school of thought—much to the delight of her husband. Add to that the fact that we were mostly the same dress and shoe size and it's understandable why I was absolutely positive I was going to get lucky and find something borderline obscene hanging her closet. In fact, I was just taking a tour through her treasures when the lights flickered again, and went out.

Shit.

I stood there frozen the way every human on the planet does when they're abruptly reminded that technology only goes so far in the war with Mother Nature. Fortunately, it seemed the good guys won the battle this time because about thirty seconds later the lights came back on.

I grabbed the first dress I found, a skimpy canary yellow job that I figured would look better on my brunette self than on my blonde (bleached) sister. I found the sandals that matched, then remembered the panties and bra I'd brought were the same red as my absconded dress. No way would they not show through the filmy material of this frothy little number.

I went over to Mel's dresser to help myself to a pair of hers, preferably new and expensive, but there wasn't anything in the drawer. Then I remembered. She'd mentioned she hadn't unpacked all her clothes since the move. They'd only been in this house for about two weeks now and if history repeated itself, it would be six months before my sister actually settled in. My only problem was trying to figure out where she'd dumped the boxes with her goodies and especially her stash of Victoria's Secrets' sleaziest offerings.

I hunted through the upstairs and was just about resigned to going braless and trying to squeeze into a pair of Trev's UnderRoo's when I had a brainstorm. The laundry. Knowing Mel, she'd probably decided to wash everything to avoid ironing. Actually not a bad idea when you think about it.

Since I was nude, and Brad was expected back momentarily and I'm really not interested in that level of sharing with him, I grabbed the dress and shimmied into it. Hmmm, not too bad. The top was basically just two wide bands of layered chiffon that barely covered my supremely average, but definitely perky tits. They crossed in a deep tight vee to the waist where a little (very little) skirt swung out in a flouncy, frothy way that hid my ass that isn't too big no matter what my mom says. I stood and admired myself in the mirror. Yup, definitely my kind of dress, short and not so sweet and showing a lot of leg, which since they are two of my best features—lean and long and much better than Mel's—this was a big plus. I twirled. Oh yeah, nice, but the twirling was going to have to be kept to a minimum unless I wanted to show off my more private assets—another reason why panties were a must.

I headed down to the kitchen barefoot with the spiky sandals in my hand, stood at the door to the basement and looked down into the creepy darkness. A moment's consideration had me slip on the shoes since the cellar floor of this house was not some place I had any desire to make contact with in my bare skin.

See, all though this was a new house for Mel et al, that was the only thing new about it. It was a restored farmhouse—if you use the term restored lightly. It looked okay on the first floor. The wallpaper was fairly fresh and the kitchen had been redone after the invention of the microwave—probably. But the upstairs was definitely 1940's and the basement well... 

Remember the basement in Silence of the Lambs? That was a lot nicer than this one, even with the dead bodies.

I tottered down the creaking steps and shivered. Not only was it creepy with it's multiple stone walled rooms and occasional 40-watt bulbs that dangled from ancient cords, but it was cold—damp, refrigerator cold. The downpour outside didn't make if feel any cozier either. Even as that fact registered there was another enormous roar of thunder and the lights flickered again. I held my breath, but this time they didn't go out. Seems my luck was holding.

But I had no intention of pushing it. I moved as fast as I could through the labyrinth of rooms, which wasn't really all that fast since the moving people had dropped boxes around like Trev and Ben do their toys. I made a few false turns and ended up in a canned goods closet twice (Who designs a closet with two doors?), but I eventually found my way into the back of the cellar where the washer and dryer were inconveniently located.

Success. My sister had stayed true to form and a dozen plastic laundry baskets held the booty I was looking for. Unfortunately they also held every piece of clothing she'd ever worn since the seventh grade and they were all mixed in together, so it took a little time for me to locate a pair of unmentionables that were good enough to wear with the little yellow number and piss my sister off in the bargain since I had no intention of ever returning either of them. Which I'm sure was her plan for my dress too.

So I'd managed to accomplish half of my quest. I held the lacy little darlings in one hand while I rummaged through masses of Goth black jeans and retro cashmere sweaters that had been such mainstays of her high school and college uniforms respectively. I was bending over a basket, my arms elbow deep in spandex and wondering how much of it was actually mine since I'd been missing a few items since the mid-nineties, when I felt something like under wire. I was just about to pull it out when the lights died again. And stayed dead.

Double shit.

The house was quiet like all houses get when the mechanicals take a powder. I did my statue impression for a minute or two and then finally forced myself to relax. It looked like Mother Nature had won another one. The lights stayed out and since the rain seemed to actually be getting worse, I doubted they would go on any time soon.

I decided that I should really try to make it out of the basement and took three steps before the stupidity of that idea was brought home to me when I tripped over one laundry basket and landed butt first in another. Nothing was hurt but my pride, but I lost my grip on the lace thong I'd been planning on stealing and god knows where it landed.

I sat there for a few minutes and contemplated the iniquities of life. I might have stayed there even longer if I hadn't heard footsteps overhead. Since they were the most likely people to know where the flashlights were stored, I was hoping it was Brad or even Mel returning home and not some gauche, on-time party guest. The latter was a distinct possibility. It had, after all been way more than a half hour since I'd started dressing, and the noises were coming from the front hall, which was not a good sign since Mel and Brad would normally use the kitchen door.

Still it was worth a shot, "Brad? Mel? Help!" I screamed.

There was a moment's silence. Oh great, it was the mad rapist making a house call.

"Is there something wrong?" A male voice tentatively yelled back. A strange male voice—with a cold apparently. "Where are you?"

"I'm trapped in the cellar," I yelled.

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Do you need some assistance?"

Well, duh. What part of the words help and trapped hadn't this guy understood?

"Yes."

"How do I find you?"

I told him how to get to the top of the stairs and then listened nervously as he clunked into furniture until he found the door. Then I listened as his feet slowly descended.

My heart was pounding. Okay, I knew it was foolish to be worried. Even my vivid imagination couldn't really convince me this guy was a psycho who'd randomly been out prowling in the storm just looking for a house with balloons tied to the mailbox and a soggy cardboard sign with an arrow and crayoned letters that spelled out the words PARTY HERE. Still, I wished I hadn't watched that Friday The 13th marathon TNT had run the weekend before. The storm just added to the atmosphere. Of course looking on the bright side, if the guy did show up wearing a hockey mask, I'd probably die a quick death of fright before he got within ten feet.

"Okay, I'm in the basement."

"Great." A thought occurred to me. "You do have a flashlight don't you?" Cause really if he didn't there was no point in having him come any further into the dungeon of the doomed.

"Yeah, I can see just fine." And with that, there was a huge crash. "I'm okay." He yelled like he thought I cared. "Oh wow, booze." There was some clanking. "Jameson's, great. I love this stuff."

My heart slowed. Not an ax murderer, just a would-be drunken partier. I could deal with that.

"You need to walk to your right."

"Uh, okay." He sounded like he'd rather stay with the whiskey, but I heard him shuffle forward.

It took about ten minutes of directions punctuated by assorted bumps, bangs and cursing to get him to my laundry cell. I'd managed to struggle to my feet in that time, which was a good thing since my dress had twisted up around my waist in the fall. Good guy or not, I didn't want his virgin look at me to be a beaver shot as that's just not a first impression I usually like to give. So I was standing with my dress demurely around my legs when he got there. Well, as demurely as a skirt could look that stopped some six inches above my knees.

"It's you." he was looking at me, but I was blinded by his flashlight so I couldn't see him at all. "Elizabeth, right? Melanie's sister?"

"Yeah, who are you?"

"It's Michael."

Which only helped some. I knew a lot of Michaels though to be honest most of them didn't live around here. I'd only moved to this city six months ago. Before that I'd been in college and then on a whirlwind tour of all the Midwest hotspots that boasted a Big K where I could usually be found working my ass off as an assistant manager. After two years, I'd finally gotten sick of the glamorous life of retail and traded in my blue golf shirts for an ugly gold jacket and a real estate license. I was still at the starving stage, but at least nobody ever has a blue light special on duplexes.

Anyway, when I'd decided on the big career change I'd mentioned it to Mel and she suggested I come live by her. She'd moved here when she and Brad had married as this was his hometown and he'd told her up front that he and the place were a package deal. I'd visited and liked it sort of. It had the advantage of being close enough to the parental units—a hundred or so miles give or take twenty—that I could mooch off them for holidays, but not so close that my mother could indulge her hobby of snooping into every nook and cranny of my life. The deal clincher was that Mel had promised me that she'd introduce me around so I wouldn't have to spend all my free time with snarky realtors or sitting in front of the box watching reruns of Highlander and lusting after Adrian Paul before he got those god awful hairplugs.

She'd been good to her word and ever since I'd gotten here she'd made sure that I was part of the group she and Brad hung with. It was a large group, this city was known for its young social set and I'd met more people in the last year than I had in my entire life. So now I searched my memory and realized that I'd met a pile of Mikes at Mel and Brad's in the last six months along with assorted Kyles, Daves and Marks. Guys have the most boring names.

"Um," I didn't want to be rude, but I really wanted to see a face to go with the name. "Could you move the light out of my eyes?"

"Oh sorry," he lowered the flashlight.

That was better. I still couldn't see him, but at least I didn't feel like I was a bug under a magnifying glass anymore.

"Maybe we should try to get back upstairs? I'm not really all that thrilled with the ambience here for some reason."

"I can see your point," Michael agreed amiably.

He swung his hand holding the flashlight in a wide arc giving me a glimpse of a nice pair of legs in chinos. I was just getting ready to see the rest of him when his gesture abruptly ended as the flashlight found one of the big metal poles that held up the ceiling. There was a crack and a ping and we were in the dark—again.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The silence lasted for about thirty seconds. "I think," Michael said quietly. "That I've broken the flashlight. And maybe my wrist."

"Are you sure?"

"Well it could just be a sprain."

I hadn't been asking about his wrist, but I could see where it might seem heartless to point that out to him. "See if you can wiggle it."

I waited as he moaned and groaned a bit. "It hurts."

"Uh huh, just stay still, I'm going to try to get to you."

I inched forward until I bumped into a solid warm male object that yelped, "Watch the feet!"

"Oops." I stepped back and reached forward. "Let me feel..."

"And that is not my hand!"

This was not going as well as I'd hoped.

"Sorry."

"Yeah, well, let me come to you."

There was a flutter of moment right in front of my face and to avoid a possible broken nose I leaned back. Next thing I felt was a hand squeezing my right boob. I squeaked.

"Er," he sounded flustered, and I realized, sort of cute. "Gee I..."

"I think we're even now."

"Anyway, my hand seems to be getting better. Doesn't hurt so much anyways and I can move it now."

"No kidding."

I could still feel the tingle from his fingers brushing my nipple. Like I said, it had been too long and cheap thrills are better than nothing.

"Elizabeth..."

"Call me Liz."

"Oh sure, it's just that Melanie always calls you Elizabeth."

"Mel likes to call everyone by their full names, says it's only proper. I think she watched too much Masterpiece Theater as a kid. I bet most of your friends call you Mike, right?"

"Not if they want me to answer."

"Oh..."

"Anyway, Liz, do you think we should try to figure out a way to get out of here?"

"I don't think that's a good idea without a light. We may as well settle in and wait. After all, someone else is bound to show up soon."

"I doubt it. I heard on the way over that there was a big accident on the highway and that both sides of the road were closed."

"Accident?" I squeaked, suddenly alarmed and feeling a little sick. "Oh god and I made Mel go out because I was too lazy."

"Unless she was driving an empty school bus or an eighteen wheeler I don't think you have much to worry about."

"Are you sure?" Relief already washing through me.

"That's what they said on the radio, but it's going to be at least a couple of hours before they open the road so don't you think we should make a stab at getting out of this place?"

Not really, was what I was tempted to say. It had been hard enough to find my way back here with lights. And since the blackout I'd fallen and stumbled and generally gotten myself so turned around I didn't even know if I was facing a wall or a door. The thought of trying to figure it out and then having to go through that mess again in the dark didn't really thrill me at all. There was also the little fact that I was wearing four inch spikes and a swirly skirt that hid no underwear if it decided to do said swirl. Oh what the hell, he couldn't see that anyway and the basement really was the pits.

"Sure."

"Great, you want to lead?"

I thought about the strappy little sandals with the big high heels. "Gosh, Mike er, Michael, I thought you'd want to take the lead being big and strong and all and no doubt a lot more capable than me."

"Uh huh."

He sounded like he didn't believe me. Imagine that. Still, he turned, or at least I thought he did until I grabbed out wildly to catch the back of his pants and found myself gripping the front of his fly instead.

"Oops," I repeated.

"Gee, Liz, you trying to tell me something here?" His voice was matter of fact, but I could feel his grin, if you can imagine anything so weird.

"Just don't leave me."

"Honey, you keep putting your hand on my crotch and we have a deal."

I removed the offending member from the offended (yeah, right) member and tried to telepath my glare through the gloom. Not that I was really all that upset, but there are conventions that have to be followed, at least that's what Mom always says.

"I know," he sighed, "that was crude, but I couldn't resist."

"Try harder next time."

I regretted that choice of words before they were halfway out of my mouth. Michael took a sharp breath and I waited for the obvious comeback. There was a moment's silence.

"You ready to move?" Was all he said.

I nodded until I realized how wasted that gesture was. "Yup."

There was some shuffling and then I felt a big warm paw encircling my smaller one. It felt warm, safe. I couldn't help but give it a squeeze in welcome.

"Ouch!"

"Is that the sore one?"

"How'd ya guess?"

"Mel never told you I was psychic?"

"She never told me you were a smart-ass either, but I'm beginning to get the picture."

"Sorry," I really wasn't, but apparently he took me at my word.

"Nah, it's okay, I kind of like it."

That was promising. I was beginning to get anxious to get this guy upstairs in some light so I could see what my next date looked like. No, I'm not really psychic, but I could tell that dinner and a movie with Michael were in my near future. At least if I had any say in the matter.

With that thought, I was back to wondering just exactly, which Michael he was. My mind started to sort through the various suspects. I remembered a Michael at Christmas, an architect or something. Oh and another one had helped us see in the New Year's at the country club party, and then there'd been the Michael or three that had been over for the Super Bowl party. Spring brought in a couple more, the Michael who'd drank all that green beer on St. Pat's—God don't let it be him—and the one who'd been enthusiastically helping with the grill at Brad's company's picnic. Crap, how many was that? And I knew there had to be a couple of others that I was missing.

All those Michaels. How would you describe that? A pride? A pod? An ascension? Definitely not the last one, Michaels they were, and as a group, I've always found guys with that name to be significantly less than uplifting. This band of merry Mikes had been no different as far as I could remember.

They'd all been pretty much of the same type—medium tall, medium build, short brownish-blondish hair and nondescript eyes. I couldn't remember any disguishing moles or scars, no mismatched eyes or hunched backs. They were just a bunch of average cute, whitebread all American guys. In other words, your basic Ken dolls. Still, I felt the urge to at least attempt try to figure out which of Barbie's beau was standing in front of me.

"So Michael, how's work?"

Not the greatest opener in the world, but I figure this way I could at least eliminate Brad's co-worker and the architect if he started bitching about how the plumbing business was nothing but a shitty mess.

"Huh? Oh, same old, same old."

"Nothing new or exciting?"

"Nope."

Okay, that was a bust. I tried to think of something else to help cut this doggy out from the herd. The problem was, at the moment I couldn't think of anything and since it was taking all my powers of concentration just to stay upright in the dark and junk laden basement, I didn't think I'd be thinking of anything soon either.

A huge blast of thunder rattled the house frame and we both jumped. Personally, I've never been afraid of storms, but this one sounded a lot like the sensor-round sound speakers at a theater playing the latest Ving Rhames epic.

"You know," Michael said when the decibel level outside finally lowered to a dull roar. "You'd think that the lightening would at least help us see something."

"Yeah, well for that you need windows."

"Oh, good point."

After that we didn't talk anymore. Instead we put our energies into shuffling along, bumping our way forward—I hoped. I found myself mentally congratulating myself on shelling out the seventy bucks for the tanning booth I'd been visiting all spring. If I'd been wearing nylons they'd have been in shreds before we'd gone ten feet—that is if Mel hadn't stolen them.

Michael opened a door and then stopped abruptly. I smashed into his backside just the way I had the other fifty times he'd done that. It was kind of a nice backside though—hard round butt, broad shoulders and he appeared to be about five inches taller than me so I wasn't exactly unhappy about getting up close and personal with it, or him. Still, when he didn't move forward again right away I stepped back.

"Why are we stopping?"

"Because there's a wall in front of me."

That sounded like a reasonable excuse. I reached out sideways and felt around a bit. I recognized the décor.

"I think we're in the old canned goods closet."

"That old psychic thing again, right?"

"Something like that."

"We need to back up."

This guy had a talent for saying the obvious.

"Okay."

I waited for him to move around me, listening to the scraping sound of his shoes on the packed dirt floor. It was taking too long and I was just about to ask what the problem was when Michael gave me a bulletin all on his own.

"Damn!"

"Now what?"

"I'm stuck."

"Stuck? On what?"

"Something, it's got my sleeve."

"Well, what is it?"

"If I knew, then I'd be able figure out how to get free."

"No need to get testy."

"It's dark. It's cold. It's damp. We're lost in Norman Bates' basement and now I can't move because the damn house seems to have taken a shine to me and wants to bond. Testy sounds just about right to me."

"Yeah, I guess you have a point."

"Besides," Michael sniffed piteously, "I'm allergic to cats."

"There's no cat."

"Trust me, there's a cat."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because my nose is stuffed, my eyes are watering and they have been since I walked through the front door."

"Is that what's wrong with your voice?"

"Uh huh. But don't worry, I have my antihistamines, if I can get to a glass of water, it'll work in minutes."

There he went again, thinking I was concerned about his health. I always find it touching that so many guys really believe that crap about women being born with maternal instincts.

Not that I was about to disillusion the dear boy, "Oh, well that's good, but Mel and Brad definitely do not have a cat."

"Then what's rubbing my ankles right now?"

"Not a cat," I insisted firmly.

"Okay, a kitten, it seems pretty small."

Uh oh.

"Um, Michael, you sure you aren't allergic to rats too?"

"Oh shit!"

There was a crash and a thud and then a slow groan as a shelf on one of the walls collapsed spilling what sounded like a bazillion cans of out-dated veggies onto the floor—and Michael.

"Michael, Mike? Michael?" My voice started out softly tentative, but it got shriller—and louder—with each repetition.

There was a groan in front and to the right of me. I stumbled towards the sound until my foot kicked something soft and another grunt told me I'd found my fallen leader. I knelt down and grabbed an arm and shook it.

"Michael, can you hear me? Talk to me sweetie, please. I need to know you're all right."

"Oh I'm fine," he groaned again, "it's probably only a slight concussion, a hairline fracture at worst."

"Let me see."

"If only."

"Okay, feel then."

I reached out in the direction of his voice.

"Ouch!"

"Sorry."

"Now I'm blind too."

"How can you tell?" Total silence. Oh damn, one of these days I really am going to have to learn when to control my mouth. I was still holding on to his arm and now I felt it shaking. Lord, Michael wasn't crying, was he?

"Oh sweetie."

This time I really was sorry. I leaned over farther until I could get a good grip and pulled him to me. I felt it was the least I could do since I'd basically been trying to get him killed for the last half hour or so. He didn't seem too adverse to the move either as he snuggled in and wrapped his arms around my waist. That's when I realized something.

"You're laughing!"

"Hell yes, I'm laughing. What did you expect?"

A wet shoulder, but I wasn't going to tell him that. "I thought you were upset with me."

"I should be..."

He didn't finish the sentence, just tightened his grip and stuck his nose into the crook of my neck. A second later I found myself sitting on his lap. A pretty comfortable lap if I do say so and a lot warmer there then standing in those spikey shoes in a damp basement. I sighed and let myself be held.

"Mmm, you smell nice." Michael's voice sounded dreamy and I vaguely recalled dire warnings from my high school health teacher about head injuries and coma. "What's that perfume?"

"Eau d' Moi and don't even think about taking a nap."

"Trust me, I'm not sleepy."

"Good, cause you know that's not something you should do with a head injury."

"My head is fine."

"I don't know, those cans could do some damage."

"I didn't hurt my head. The cans missed it."

"Then what was all that about hairline fractures?"

"Um, artistic license?"

"Oh brother."

"Hey, I did get hit on my shoulder."

"Uh huh, right."

"The bruise is probably going to be real nasty."

"But you said..."

"Aw Jesus, do you ever shut up?"

"Michael, I just..."

He kissed me. It wasn't a small, hi glad to meet you, peck. It wasn't even a, gee, you're kinda cute and I could like you, buss. It was a flat out, this is it, here we go, I'm crazy, hot for you,  tongue in the mouth, deep, wet, sexy kiss. And as a ploy to shut me up, it worked. Damn did it ever.



-------

Chapter 2


A few minutes later we called time out on account of breathing, which is something neither of as had been able to manage very well during the lip lock. Even then, it was all I could do to just remain upright by leaning on his chest and feel his heart pounding in the same rhythm as mine.

"Wow!" He took the word right out of my mouth.

If that kiss was any indication of what a plain old Michael could do then clearly I'd been wasting my time with pretty boys like Adam. I skootched down a little further into his lap, not quite as comfy as it had been now that a hard, hot poker had made a surprise appearance, but infinitely more interesting. I was just tilting my head up for round two when the Miss Manners section of my brain kicked in.

I hate when it does that.

"You know," I started reluctantly. "We probably should try and get up and get moving again. Somebody's bound to show up here eventually and it might get a little embarrassing."

His lips started an exploration of my neck, "But it's so cozy here." He whispered as he bit softly down on an ear lobe. "We aren't bumping into things," he kissed my hair. "We aren't getting hit by falling objects," his lips found my eyelids. "We're not even lost."

He had a point. At least staying still had the advantage of not risking further injury to Michael, who I had to admit, had been taking a pretty good beating since he'd assumed the role of my rescuer. We could stay here and wait until somebody found us and in the meantime... I thought made me straight up.

"Rats!"

Michael tried to pull me back into kissing range, but when I wouldn't comply he sighed and said, "What'd you forget?"

"Rats," I repeated.

"Huh?"

"You know, as in, Here kitty, kitty?" I sang the last three words.

Michael had a great flight or fight reflex, I'll give him that. One minute he's all stretched out with me sitting semi-demurely on his lap and the next he's up and I'm the one with my butt making contact with the dank cement. I didn't stay there for long. As soon as I realized my change in location, my own instincts for survival kicked in and a second later I could feel myself standing next to his heavily breathing body—not that I had any illusions that I was the cause of all that gasping.

"I guess break time is over," I said a little wistfully.

I wasn't anymore excited about the possibility of meeting up with Ben's great-great-great-great-great-grandson than Michael, but I couldn't help but miss that warm lap—and what it offered. This was so not turning out to be my night.

Michael reached out and after a little unnecessary fumbling, managed to grab hold of my arms. I was hoping for another lip lock, but instead, he firmly placed me in front of him.

"It's your turn to lead."

There are moments when I truly hate woman's lib.

I sighed and stumbled forward in the direction where I thought one of the doors was located—and promptly banged into a wall. I made a right turn and tried again and almost landed back on the floor when I stepped on one of those damned cans.

"Laugh and you die."

Michael turned his snorting into a cough.

The third time, as they say was the charm. Now we had another problem. My sense of direction is usually pretty good, but on the few times I do get lost, I really get lost. Unfortunately, this looked like one of those times. I hadn't been paying attention to where Michael was wandering when we'd first stumbled into the canning closet and even if I had I wouldn't have been able to guess which of the doors we'd gone in—or for that matter if it was the same one we were at now.

"Do I go right or left?" I have no idea why I thought Michael would be any better at playing Sacagawea than me, but it was worth a shot.

"Beats me, we walked straight into Mickey's playhouse if you remember."

I didn't, which was why I asked in the first place, but it seemed a little churlish to mention it. I put out my hands to see if I hit anything. Nada. Oh well, I turned to the right. Michael's hand squeezed down on the shoulder he'd been holding.

"Don't you think it would make more sense to go left?"

"You want me to lead?" Okay, so churlish it was going to be. "I'm leading."

We turned right and managed to go about fifteen steps without hitting a wall. I started feeling confident and started to walk with a little more assurance. This guide dog thing was easy. It wouldn't be long now, I figured, until Michael and I could bid a not so fond adieu to our subterranean house of horrors.

I was wrong.

I realized this when one moment I was prancing merrily along and the next I was bouncing, yeah bouncing, flat on my face on something that felt a lot like a giant trampoline. I tried to grab hold of whatever the hell it was, but couldn't find any purchase. All I could manage was to flip over on my back. Oh what the fuck, I thought, and settled in to enjoy the ride.

"Elizabeth? Liz? Where'd you go?"

How sweet, Michael sounded like he missed me. Of course, that could have been because he realized he'd now have to go back on point if Hell House had killed me. The mystery tramp finally stopped throwing me up in the air and I rolled over in an unladylike sprawl.

"Down here."

"Keep talking, I'll come to you."

"No don't move!"

I was too late.

"Huh? Oh shit!"

The next thing I knew I was being thrown up in the air again. Michael apparently was more of fighter than I was, or at least heavier because now this personal amusement ride of ours was really bucking. I tried again to find something that would keep me from being thrown onto the damp, hard floor and was more or less successful depending on your point of view, since I managed grab on to a big hunk of Michael's hair. I pulled him towards me until he was stretched out on top of my bod, which pinned me to the rubber underneath and felt pretty good too. All and all I didn't think it was a bad deal, but for some odd reason Michael wasn't so thrilled. Of course, the fact that I was still yanking on his hair might have had something to do with it.

"Yeow!"

He tried to pull away, but that wasn't an option as far as I was concerned. If I was going to fall off this damn whatever, so was he. But that really wasn't my goal and I decided to point this out to him.

"Hold still," I hissed.

"Then let go," he hissed back.

I did and he returned the favor by collapsing back on me, which was a good thing except for one small detail. Michael had managed to back a fair distance off of me, at least as far as my arm would stretch, so when I let go he fell between my legs. Face first.

It was awfully quiet all of a sudden. The bouncing slowly lessened to a gentle undulate. The storm was taking one of those breathers like they do when they're either about to die an early death or the class five tornado it's spawned has just turned in your direction. The house of course was still silent from the lack of power. Far in the distance, I could hear Larry the Lhasa pissing and moaning about being locked up with only Elmo and Barney for company, but other than that there wasn't a sound—except for Michael breathing directly on my crotch.

Have I mentioned the dress I was wearing has a tendency to twirl?

I felt like this was the point when I should maybe say something. Or scream. The only thing was, I didn't feel much like saying anything—except possibly suggesting a little lower would be better for me—and if he did that, the screaming would come naturally. Like I said, it had been a long, looong time. Still, I'd been raised to be one of those boring 'nice' girls and that kind of training has an unfortunate habit of kicking in right when you start to enjoy yourself.

"Uh, I think you should move."

Okay, it wasn't brilliant—or even especially forceful—but this wasn't a situation I remembered covering in Miss Marianne's dance and deportment class for young ladies that my mother had insisted I go to every Saturday morning for two interminable pre-adolescent years. Besides, I'd flunked.

Michael didn't seem to be any more up on his manners than me. Not only didn't he move, but my Knight in the Order of the Obvious felt the need to point out something I was only too well aware of already.

"You aren't wearing underwear."

No shit, Sherlock.

"You know," he continued dreamily. "The gentlemanly thing to do would be to get up and pretend this never happened."

He stopped and seemed to be waiting for a response from me, but for once, the snappy comeback lobe in my brain wasn't working. Of course, it's a little difficult to come up with the spare witty riposte when it's taking all your strength not to shove your whole pussy into the face of a stranger. Or rather a strange face.

Michael, damn him, seemed to sense this. He laughed softly and nuzzled me a bit with his nose.

"Aren't you glad that I'm no gentleman?"

He'd sounded sort of smug, which might have pissed me off enough to actually do something if he hadn't actually moved first. Lower.

Oh God.

I'd already accepted the idea that Michael could kiss. Very well in fact, superbly even. But now we were into his true talent. He was to oral sex what DaVinci was to painting, Mozart to music, Shakespeare to... I think I've made my point.

It wasn't even that he really did much of anything, at least not at first. Hot puffs of damp breath on shivering skin, tiny flicks of a wet, soft tongue, the smooth glide of finger tips over trembling muscle, these were the opening salvo's and my oh my were they effective. A couple of minutes of them and I not only was talking to God, I was banging on the gates of heaven.

But Michael had no intention of letting me open that door. Instead, he leaned back and slid his hands down my legs. I tried to tell him that foreplay wasn't always as necessary as Cosmo made it out to be and when that didn't seem to phase him, I threw away what little pride I had left and begged. It didn't matter. He was in full tourist mode on my body, taking in all the sights, the smells, exploring all the crannies and soft, rounded edges, a whirlwind tour of the country of Liz and each touch, each swipe of the tongue marked me, changed me. Leave no footprints, take only pictures was not a concept this man seemed to be familiar with and I realized he was no daytripper, but an explorer—the Captain Kirk of lovers, discovering new worlds and boldly going where no man had gone before except of course they had, but never like this, never so thoroughly, never so good.

I arched into that hot mouth and it was so wet, so sweet, so goddamn thrilling. The heat and the smell of him overwhelmed me, I forgot I was in a damp basement, lying on God knows what with a no-last named Michael. It was only me and my shadowy lover. The one who had at least one extra hand and a couple of tongues.

"Oh god, you smell so good, taste so good," he mumbled. "Please don't say you want me to stop."

Was he out of his fucking mind? Wasn't the fact that I was humping his face like our old poodle BooBoo used to do to Reverend Schmeltzer's leg giving him a clue? I didn't want him to stop, ever, and I'd have told him so if I hadn't been so busy trying to get his damn zipper open. Somewhere in the last few minutes our bouncing bed had managed to move us around so that while we were still connected at that all important spot, there was now a possibility for me to do a little quid pro quo'ing and it was an opportunity I had no intention of turning down.

He took that as the sign it was, "Oh yes, thank you, thank you, thank you."

No, thank you, I wanted to say, but the zipper decided to finally give up and slid down and something hot and heavy and wet was straining through the thin fabric of silk boxers and it claimed all my attention and all my concentration and I didn't care about anything else, but getting acquainted with that fat cock, touching, tasting... 

"Wait," and he pulled my hands away from him before I reached my goal and pulled me around till our noses bumped.

Huh? "No," I shook my head like he could see and started to whine. "No wait. Why? I thought you wanted... I thought..."

It had worked once and Michael obviously subscribed to the don't mess with success theory of life, so he to shut me up, he kissed me. Over and over again. Soft and damp and sloppy, fucking my mouth, biting my lower lip, my Kissable lower lip, while his hands were busy, so busy, unzipping my dress and pulling it down farther and farther over my arms until the top met my skirt in a frothy lump at my waist. He let go of my arms then and I could've reached down, but Michael had moved, sliding his world class mouth in a slithery trail from neck to nipple and he licked and, oh Jesus, he nibbled and there was nothing I could do but reach up and cradle his head and pull it into me demanding he take more and more until I wanted him to just suck the whole damn breast into his mouth, and he did. Oh God.

"Mmm, like that do you?"

I was so far gone I didn't even mention how bad his Yoda impression was, "Naked," I gasped. "You need to get naked."

"Okay."

I do so love a man who obeys.

He was quick too, in a good way that is. Ten seconds after I'd made my demand I felt the first touch of Michael skin. Smooth, sweaty, sizzling skin—all my favorite alliterations. I took in a deep breath, all male, yummy. And to make sure I took a taste, yup, as good as it looked, felt —whatever. My legs did that Pavlovian thing they do and curled around his hard butt, pulling him closer until that hard little appendage (not so little, thank god) found a home—or at least a vacation hideaway—in the lips of my pussy. Fuck, if Michael wanted to play explorer, the least I could do was show him the way to the secret passage.

Apparently, he approved of my revelation. He started to do that sliding thing with his hips and like everything else he did it was great, fabulous, better than... Okay, I was going to say sex, but that was stupid because it was sex, wonderful sex. Messy, swollen, dripping sex complete with squelchy sounds and moans and groans from both of us. Up and down he moved, over my clit, making me squirm and damn, it was almost perfect.

But not quite. Because up and down is great, but in and out is better. I wiggled an arm in between our sticky bellies and latched on to the object of my intentions.

"Don't!" Michael moaned, "I'll come."

"Not on my watch," this movie line thing was catching.

But the meaning was clear to Michael, especially when I did that squeezing thing I'd perfected on my third to last boyfriend, Will "Quick Draw" Dawson. A minute later and things were back in hand, so to speak.

"Now fuck me."

I could feel Michael grinning again. "A smart ass and easy. I think I'm falling in love."

If ever a comment deserved a comeback that was it and I would have answered, really, but my hand had been doing it's 'this way to the treasure' thing and something very hard and very hot was right there, pointed at that spot where all the fun starts and it was too much and not enough and who the hell has time for comebacks when your just about to get stuffed full of big, drippy, glorious cock and obsessed with another type of coming altogether.

There was a huge crack of thunder and the house shook, or maybe it was me, or maybe it was Michael, but suddenly nothing was funny, this was serious. Oh god, serious and we froze knowing that a minute from now there wouldn't be any stopping, wouldn't be any time to rethink or regroup and maybe it wasn't right and maybe we'd both regret it, but it was too late, too far along to worry about that and I wanted one of us to move, to start, to just goddamn get on with it.

And then we both did.

My hips pitched forward and he slid into me like he'd been there before. Like he was made for me, just me. All the bumps and veins fit perfectly, filling my empty spaces like... Like... I don't know what like, but it was something— hard and hot and thick, very thick. Thicker than anyone else I'd ever been with. Thicker than I thought I could take, but I did and oh god, why hadn't I known that thick could feel this good? Why hadn't someone mentioned it before? The way it stretched, pulled, took away my breath, made me feel stuffed and plugged and utterly, utterly fucked. Feel the burn, Liz.

Michael paused over me, not touching anywhere, but there. And there was enough, perfect even. Maybe he was average in the light of day, but not now, not here. Now he was huge and solid, a mountain suspended above me, an avalanche waiting for a sign from me to trigger, and god I wanted it. Wanted to be buried, engulfed, swept away in a mass of Michael.

"Please."

And that was all I had to say, just one little whispered word and Michael laughed again, only this time it was a husky, breathless, full of need and promise. He flexed his hips and moved back and then drove—drove—his shaft hard into my wanting, greedy body. And I wanted to tell him how good it felt, how fantastic, how necessary he suddenly was to my sanity even as he drove me out of my mind, but the only words my mind could come up with were Gimme, gimme, gimme and all I could do was clutch at his shoulders and pull him down, closer, closer, wanting him more and harder and more and harder.

It still wasn't enough and Michael was talking to me now, whispering dirty words in my ear, licking his punctuation points, making me twist my neck and giggle and groan all at the same time and always there was pushing, him into me, me onto him and then suddenly it was enough, more than enough, too much, no stopping, passing go right into gone and I arched up in an exorcism of lust and ecstasy and pulsed in one huge atomic blast of an orgasm, dimly aware that Michael was right there, right with me, bellowing his own pleasure, shooting off molten cum into my spasming tunnel, setting off another round of explosions that left me weak and grinning.

And then there was nothing but the sound of our hearts.

"I think the storm's past." Michael whispered hoarsely.

Maybe outside, but personally I was still recovering from lightening strikes. Michael had been doing the gentlemanly thing with his elbows, but now he flip-flopped until we were sprawled chest to chest with me on top. I buried my nose in his neck and snuggled in tighter.

"You okay?"

"Mmm," was all I had to say about that, but it seemed enough to satisfy him.

"You know," Michael continued—and he had the nerve to say I never shut up. "We're going to have to get up soon. The rain really has stopped and I imagine the roads will be clear soon. Plus I have no idea where my clothes are."

He didn't sound all that upset about the last bit, or any of it for that matter. But then, if he felt half as sated as I did he probably couldn't get up the energy to do much more than breathe. Still he was right. People were bound to show up eventually and, while I didn't have any regrets about what had happened between Michael and me, that didn't mean I was willing to have half our town knowing about it either. Or seeing the evidence.

Michael must have come to the same conclusion because after a brief, but thorough, kiss, he reluctantly moved my still recovering body off his and started to crawl around our own personal rubber romper room no doubt looking for his skivs. This set off the inevitable rocking and Michael, apparently not learning his lesson the first time, tried to fight it, which of course didn't work and twenty or so seconds later landed him face down, smack dab, right back where he'd started between my thighs.

I waited for the sounds of disgust. It's always amazed me that guys—well, straight ones anyway— seem to believe that the minute their sperm leaves their bodies it takes on all the properties of toxic waste. The fact that just minutes before they'd been begging, pleading, to have me swallow said sludge doesn't even register. Most of them won't even kiss after that and the ones that do act like they're doing me a big fucking favor when it would be obvious to anyone with half a brain that the fucking and the favor had entirely been one-sided. And that was only kissing. If Michael ran true to guy form, I'd be lucky if he didn't lose his lunch in my lap.

But he didn't. Nor did he gag, shriek or even back away. Instead he laughed. A sexy, dirty, knee weakening chuckle that made me wonder again why I'd ever thought he'd be as boring as his name.

"This feels familiar," he finally said in a voice that made me hope they never got that damn accident off the road. "A lot stickier, but definitely ground I'm acquainted with."

He was right on both counts and the sticky part was definitely a problem though whether it was a big or little one would depend on how whether all those exercises were finally going pay off. Unfortunately, I wouldn't be able to tell until I stood.

"I don't suppose," I said almost wistfully, "you have a handkerchief or something?"

"No," there was a smile in his voice. "But I think I can probably come up with an alternative."

The slurp was audible as Michael once again engaged in his incredible mouth in an activity I'd already labeled as one of his greatest talents. It was different this time though. Less demanding, gentle. This wasn't the start of hot sex, it was the perfect ending to a good time had by both of us. And as a tissue substitute it absolutely rocked. Good Housekeeping had to have a seal of approval for this.

I quaked as he hit a tender spot.

"You okay," he whispered, "I'm not being too rough am I?"

God no, was what I meant to say, but then the most amazing thing happened and without any buildup I shuddered through another climax. Not cataclysmic, not earth shattering, just a slow gentle pulse that radiated right out to my fingers and toes and curled them both. On and on it went, sweeping over me, making me shudder and moan and finally collapse as the last vestige of strength was literally licked out of my body.

"I think I'll take that as a no about being too rough." Michael tilted his head and grinned as he did the thing he did second best, being obvious. Then another nuzzle put me into orbit again and I got too involved in what was going on between my legs to worry about petty details.

A few minutes, or maybe it was a couple of days, later he finished just as gently as he started. If I'd been up to it I'd have given him a standing ovation. As it was, I wasn't too sure standing was in my near future at all.

For a while things were kind of fuzzy in that sepia tinted way things get when you're only semi-conscious. I vaguely registered that Michael finally did manage to get off our rubber field of play and from the sounds of it, managed to find at least some of his clothes. I also realized he was a lot more coherent than me. Of course he'd only had one out of body experience while I was pretty sure I'd been in hat trick country at least so it was understandable that he'd be a little more with it than me. At least he seemed to have cogent thought processes which he was somehow managing to put into words, something I was far from being able to do at the moment. Honestly though, for all I know it could have been absolute gibberish since I'd also lost the ability to concentrate enough to actually understand the spoken language. That is until he apparently repeated a question that obviously required an answer.

"Liz, do you hear me?"

"Huh?" Well it was a word at least, I was making progress.

"Sweetheart, you have to get up. Really, someone is going to be here any minute."

"Yeah, okay."

In the dark recesses of my brain whatever was left of my synapses fired up enough to make me realize he was right. I struggled to my knees, mildly surprised that I had enough control over my muscles to move them. My dress was still twisted around my waist so I fumbled with it until I could slide my arms into the straps that held it up and then tried to fluff out the skirt that had somehow managed to tuck itself under the waistband. It probably looked ridiculous, but for the first time I realized total darkness did have some advantages.

Michael was right next to me literally breathing down my neck. "You're right at the edge of this whatever this is." I felt him bounce it deliberately with a gingerly placed foot. "By the way what the hell is it?"

My mind was finally starting to really work because suddenly I knew the answer to that one.

"Brad used to be river guide for white water adventures down in West Virginia when he was in college. A raft got wrecked somehow and he salvaged it. Always said he was going to use it someday, but instead he got the bright idea of filling the inner tubes with foam, flipped it over and now the boys use it for an indoor tramp."

"Great idea," his hand pulled me to my feet, then came up and caressed my cheek. "And very handy too."

I'd been thinking about getting embarrassed now that the whole sex and sin situation had been dealt with, but that comment struck me as funny. I giggled. Then I laughed. Michael was quiet beside me for a minute, but soon I heard him join in. Eventually the two of us were holding each other up as we panted for breath and tried to tamp down the hilarity.

"You know," Michael sounded winded, but great sex and a good laugh will do that to you. "I used to think you didn't like me very much."

"Why's that?" I tried to sound innocent and shocked at the same time and not like I really didn't have a fucking clue what he was talking about, though I really, really wished I did.

I mean it's all well and good to read about some mysterious stranger slipping it to the heroine in some smarmy romance novel—and yes I read them—but it's another to be said heroine and realize you've just done the wicky-wacky with some guy you wouldn't be able to pick out in a line-up unless they dropped trow and let you have a feel. Call me old-fashioned, but I wanted a face to go with the fantasies I was sure were going to fill up my next few nights.

"You know, after what you said and all..."

I'd said something? My mind was still sluggish, but picking up speed fast. I ran through the various scenarios of the ghost of parties past. No use, I'd said a lot of things most of it bullshit and not worth remembering, which apparently is what had happened to the words that Michael seemed to have memorized. Hell, what had I said? And when? And where? Give me some clues dammit!

I took a deep breathe and said in my sweetest most puzzled tone, "What I said?"

"Yeah, when we met. You remember."

"Oh that." Again I tried to make it sound like I was remembering.

There was a pause and Michael stood up a little straighter in my arms.

Uh oh. Was my dark knight finally realizing that the damsel in the dungeon didn't know fuck all about who he was?

The slam of the kitchen door was pretty muffled, but judging by both our reactions you'd have thought a nuclear blast had just gone off in the front yard.

"Elizabeth? Elizabeth, where are you?" Mel sounded alarmingly close.

Shitty, shit, shit, shit, shit!

"Your sister," Michael yelped helpfully as if I couldn't recognize the voice that had alternatively nagged, teased, tortured, consoled and bossed me around since the moment I'd squalled my first breath.

The door upstairs opened again and this time it was my brother-in-law Brad's voice that sounded like it was coming from right behind my left shoulder.

"Is everything okay. Where's Liz?"

"Who knows?" Mel sounded frazzled. "Probably upstairs still trying on half my wardrobe and burning all my best mood candles. Come on, we'll worry about her later, let's get the ice in before it melts all over the back seat."

The door slammed again and there was silence above.

Still, even with the reprieve we were running out of time fast. The next few moments were a frenzy frantic whispers and looking for missing shoes and bumping into each other. Frankly I was wondering why we bothered since the moment Mel had a good look at us she'd know that Michael and I'd started the party early. I was just about to mention this, when his strong hands found my shoulders and squeezed down lightly to hold me in place.

"Look," he breathed in my ear, "I understand, really."

He did?

"I know that under normal circumstances I'm not your type."

Let's think about that. Michael was funny, smart, nice and a generous lover. Oh god he was right!

"So now you're regretting this and I understand."

Huh? No he didn't.

"So here's the deal. If you want to just forget all about the last hour, that's cool. I'll understand and nobody has to ever know, at least not from me."

Wait a minute! "Michael..."

"Let me finish. Here's the plan. As soon as Mel and Brad come back in I'll go disappear and you yell for help again." He chuckled, but it sounded a little sad. "Hopefully with better results this time. I'll wait until the lights come on again and then I'll go up too. It shouldn't be too long now that the storm's over. And when you see me we'll act like nothing's happened."

Well it was a plan, but a damn depressing one.

"Is that what you want?" My voice was small and a little forlorn sounding as it had just occurred to me that maybe what he was doing was brushing me off by making it look like it was my idea.

"Oh hell no. It's just that I can tell you're not sure about this. This wasn't exactly planned by either of us."

"No but..."

"Look Liz," Michael's hands slid down my arms and a little shiver ran down my spine that had nothing to do with a cold, damp basement. "I'm not going anywhere. If you really want me, I'll be around."

I couldn't help myself. "All I have to do is pucker up and blow?"

He laughed again, "Well great as that sounds, I think whistling would be more appropriate for a non-orgy party."

The door slammed again and two sets of footsteps could clearly be heard.

"Michael, I don't have to think... Michael? Michael?"

He was gone.

The next few minutes went by fast. I yelled and Mel screamed because as she later said, it sounded like I was lying at her feet. She and Brad came to my rescue then and Mel led me upstairs with a flashlight while Brad went and investigated the fuse box since apparently all the neighbors all ready had their power back on. He must have been successful because thirty seconds after I fell over the eight bags of ice that were inconveniently stacked in the middle of the kitchen floor, the mechanicals came on with a wheeze and a groan and a loud popping sound that made me mention to Mel that she might want to check the batteries in all the smoke detectors.

After that it was mad dash upstairs for me to repair the damages this hell house (and the angelic Michael) had inflicted on me in the last couple of hours. A quick shower and once again I found myself staring into my sister's closet, but this time it was an electric blue silk sheath that caught my fancy mainly owing to the fact that it had a built in bra since I'd never managed to find one of those in my foray down to the depths and my own fire engine red nipple coverer had apparently been absconded by my sister. At least she'd left the panties, which I slipped since the dress wasn't see-thru or swirly. A smattering of paint and quick brush of the hair and I was ready to face the night. Again.

Except was I? Michael was downstairs. Actually a plethora of Michaels were down there as I'd managed to find out from Liz when I'd asked if Michael was going to be at the party. She'd laughed and said she'd invited about eight with that name so which one was I asking about.

Which Michael? That really was the question of the night, wasn't?

But standing upstairs staring at myself in the mirror wasn't going to give me the answer. I took a deep breath and walked over to the stairs. It was an open job and from the top I could see most of the living room. It had filled up by now, the partiers had all arrived en masse a minute or so after Brad got the lights on. I guess they'd been waiting in their cars, which made sense since they'd all been stalled at the accident at the bridge.

There were about fifty people and more than half were guys. Everyone looked neat and tidy, something that disappointed me because I'd really been hoping that Michael, my Michael might have looked a little the worse for wear and therefore identifiable. No such luck. My only other clue was a bust as well. There were scads of men and most of them were dressed in beige chino's. Guys not only have the most boring names, but their fashion sense sucks too.

As I watched I heard the name Michael. I swear at least ten guys looked over at the caller. For all I knew every guy in the place was named Michael. There just had to be a name for that. A drove? A clash? A wisp of Michaels? I noticed a group of bland ex-boy scouts talking in a corner and stared until a couple looked up and smiled at me. No, I realized, it was a stud of Michaels that faced me tonight. At least one of them was. Only one problem—I wasn't sure exactly which them that was.

But, a small grin escaped from my once again Kissable lips, I had a feeling it could be a hell of a lot of fun finding out.


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The End
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Posted:  2006-03-20
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