****** Shadowplay by Seychelle ******
===============================================================================

Shadowplay


Sheen woke with the grandmother of all headaches, accompanied by an equivalent
protest from her stomach. At first she thought it the end-run of another lager-
and-curry marathon, followed by an exhausted collapse into bed.

Except this wasn't her bed: the mattress was far too firm and comfortable, the
sheets too clean and ordered; even the air tasted antiseptic. Had she scored
with some neat freak, or-

Her vision cleared, focused, the lines of the unfamiliar, sparsely-furnished
salmon pink room growing sharper. Sharper still was the cold steel gripping her
wrist, manacling her to the metal bar running along one side of her elevated
bed.

There was none of the panic Sheen might have expected; she recognised this
numbness as the afterglow of anesthesia. The distant hallway PA announcements
confirmed she was in hospital; a glance through the window opposite to the
bleak grey urban sprawl below narrowed it down to the City Hospital. The
handcuff was of little surprise, either, considering her current status; lager-
and-curry nights had been nothing but dreams since before her trial and
conviction. But why was she in hospital? Had she been attacked in prison?

TESTING, TESTING: ARE YOU RECEIVING THIS?

Sheen started, quickly glancing about the room, the subsequent cranial spasm
making her immediately regret making such quick motions. Her voice sounded like
dry rice. 'Who's that?'

CAN YOU HEAR ME?

The voice was feminine, but tinny, low in volume but terribly close, like a
mosquito whispering in her inner ear. Was her head lying on the intercom to the
nurse's station? She reached up with her free hand to her neck, finding the
bandage at the base of her skull. What had happened to her? 'Who's speaking?
Where are you?'

COULD YOU HAVE ANOTHER LOOK AROUND, PLEASE? I WASN'T FULLY ON-LINE WHEN YOU
AWOKE.

Now panic began to rise, a cold bile that made Sheen's skin go clammy and her
heart race like a trapped bird's. Her eyes darted about again, certain this was
all some weird joke, before pulling the covers up over her head and lying
there, quivering as she called out, 'Nurse? Nurse!'

WOULD YOU CALM DOWN, PLEASE?

As if shocked that the voice could follow her even under the sheets, Sheen
squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth, her breath staccato pulses which
threatened to carry her into hyperventilation. She was mad, that was it:
schizophrenia, hearing voices in her head-

YOU DON'T REMEMBER ANY OF THIS, DO YOU?

Sheen tried to ignore the voice, searching her childhood memories for some
prayer powerful enough to banish this nightmare, some suitable saint to invoke
for protection. Neither was forthcoming.

THEY SAID SHORT-TERM MEMORY LOSS WAS A POST-OPERATIVE POSSIBILITY. THEY SHOULD
HAVE HAD SOMEBODY HERE WHEN YOU AWOKE; THIS ISN'T PART OF MY JOB, REALLY. WAIT
A MOMENT.

There was a pause, one which caught Sheen's attention despite her mounting
anxiety, bidding her to calm down again, belay the fear to more manageable
levels. The voice was hardly speaking in the manner she expected, no calls to
Kill For Satan and all that.

SORRY, I HAD TO FIND WHAT THEY HAD WRITTEN FOR ME FOR THIS EVENTUALITY. SHEENA
MCCLOSKEY, YOU WERE FOUND GUILTY OF A BREACH OF THE PUBLIC DISCIPLINE ACT, AND
DUE TO YOUR RECIDIVIST RECORD, WAS SENTENCED TO FIVE YEARS AT MANGATE. Another
pause. IS ANY OF THIS COMING BACK TO YOU?

Sheen emerged from under the covers, moaned and held her forehead. Damn it,
yes. 'I remember baring my arse to the judge when he told me how long I was
going down for.'

The voice sounded almost embarrassed now. YES, WELL, FOUR WEEKS INTO YOUR
SENTENCE, YOU VOLUNTEERED FOR THE SHADOW PROJECT. THE SHADOW IMPLANT IS THE
LATEST IN PAROLEE TAGGING TECHNOLOGY. HOWEVER, UNLIKE PREVIOUS TAGS WHICH ONLY
MONITORED YOUR LOCATION, THE CYBERNETIC TELEPRESENCE UNIT IMPLANTED IN YOUR
SKULL LAST NIGHT ALLOWS FOR TOTAL LONG-DISTANCE SENSORY SUPERVISION - BY
MYSELF. There was a pause. YOU MUST REMEMBER THE BRIEFING BY NOW.

Sheen's hand shot to her neck again. 'You mean you're inside my head, reading
my mind? Controlling me?'

The voice sighed. I AM NOT "INSIDE" YOU, I CAN'T CONTROL YOU, AND I CAN'T READ
YOUR THOUGHTS - THANK GOODNESS. I'VE BEEN CONTRACTED TO BE YOUR SHADOW, YOUR
SUPERVISOR. THE IMPLANT WAS ORIGINALLY DESIGNED FOR LONG-DISTANCE MONITORING OF
UNDERCOVER POLICE OPERATIONS, AND ALLOWS ME TO EXPERIENCE EVERYTHING AS YOU DO:
WHAT YOU SEE, HEAR, SMELL, TASTE AND FEEL, FROM THE COMFORT OF MY OWN HOME. I
CAN ALSO TALK TO YOU, TO OFFER ADVICE AND TRY TO KEEP YOU OUT OF TEMPTATION.
BUT THAT'S ALL: THE CHOICES YOU MAKE, AND THEIR CONSEQUENCES, ARE YOURS ALONE.
DON'T YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT TELEPRESENCE TECHNOLOGY?

'No,' she lied. She recalled the tabloid bedlam and hysteria over recorded
memories, brain implants and other 1984-style commotion, soon forgotten for
another food scare or celebrity divorce. But now that the full impact of the
unseen woman's words in her head were sinking in, as slow and sure as the
warmth from a small but steady fire, it boiled Sheen's fear and confusion into
realisation, then finally anger. 'Those bastards- they can't do this to me. I
have rights-'

RIGHTS YOU HAPPILY RELINQUISHED WHEN YOU SIGNED THE RELEASE FORMS, PRESS
SECRETS AGREEMENT AND BRIEFING ACKNOWLEDGMENTS-

'I wasn't really paying attention!' Sheen argued. That much was the truth: all
she remembered was the promise of immediate release from Mangate in exchange
for "close supervision." She thought it would be like past programs, appeasing
some tight-spinchtered social worker twice a week with assurances of staying on
the Straight And Narrow.

THAT'S HARDLY MY PROBLEM.

Sheen ground her teeth; damn it, she needed to look at somebody to argue
properly with them! 'Yes, well, they didn't say anything about Big Sister
watching me, nagging me for the rest of my life-'

I CAN ASSURE YOU, MISS MCCLOSKEY, THIS WILL BE JUST AS UNPLEASANT AN EXPERIENCE
FOR ME AS FOR YOU; BABY-SITTING AN IRRESPONSIBLE PETTY CRIMINAL WASN'T HIGH ON
MY LIST OF CAREER CHOICES. I INTEND TO KEEP THE TWO-WAY COMMUNICATION BETWEEN
US TO A MINIMUM, BUT YOU'LL NEVER KNOW WHEN I'LL BE SECRETLY MONITORING YOU,
DAY OR NIGHT, RECORDING AND REPORTING ON YOUR ACTIVITIES TO THE PAROLE AGENCY.

AND IT WON'T BE FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE - A SUPREME RELIEF TO US BOTH, I'M
SURE. THE SURVEILLANCE WILL CONTINUE FOR THE NEXT TWO YEARS, OR UNTIL YOU BREAK
THE CONDITIONS OF YOUR PAROLE, WHICHEVER COMES FIRST. IF IT'S THE LATTER,
THEY'LL HAVE THE IMPLANT REMOVED AND YOU BACK IN MANGATE IN A MATTER OF HOURS.

Sheen realised she was clutching her neck, and relaxed her grip. 'What now?'

NOW, I EXPECT IF YOU CALL THE NURSE AGAIN, YOU'LL HAVE YOUR STITCHES CHECKED,
AND BE FREE TO RETURN TO WHATEVER PANTOMIME PASSED FOR YOUR OLD LIFE.

The wells of anger and despair which had opened at the mention of returning to
prison, with its days-long lockups, slop buckets and six women to a cell, now
closed at the prospect that she was finally free again.

Well, as free as she could expect to be, under these bizarre circumstances.

She wasn't long leaving hospital, or reregistering at the Benefits Shop for a
new card. Out of prison rags and hospital gowns and comfortably clad in the
more-familiar street leathers she had when she'd been nicked, Sheen made her
way down familiar streets once more. The sun shone brightly on the facades of
the graffitied, pockmarked council towers, shuttered storefronts and weedy,
skeletal "playgrounds", as if in a vain attempt to brighten up the squalor.

Sheen didn't care. She'd learned long ago to seek contentment, not happiness;
happiness was a quicksilver goal, easily slipping out of one's grasp even after
a lifetime's struggle to seize it, leaving only disappointment and despair,
whereas contentment was passive, and could come to you with little effort. She
nodded and smiled, pleased with the idea; and yet, once upon a time, things had
been different, and she'd been fueled with ambition, to leave the estate and...
do something.

When she finally acknowledged that, apart from moving out of her parents' flat,
she had no goals to speak of, an invisible weight seemed to lift off her
shoulders. Her life may not have been much, but a woman without ambition could
be content, as a cud-chewing cow could be content, or a pig in shit. She
grinned to herself again and took a long pull from her cigarette as she admired
a postman's bum; being an adult had its compensations. Sure, the Benefits
Workforce would soon have her employed, but until then, she had time and
Restart Allowance simply begging to be spent foolishly.

STOP LOOKING AT HIM; IT'S RUDE.

Sheen glanced behind her, her neck still stiff. 'What?'

AND YOU SHOULDN'T SMOKE. I CAN FEEL THE SMOKE GOING DOWN YOUR THROAT; IT'S
AWFUL. WHY DON'T YOU GO VISIT YOUR FAMILY? I'M SURE THEY'VE MISSED YOU.

Sheen glanced across the street at the Chinese restaurant, and had a better
idea.

HOW CAN YOU EAT THAT RUBBISH?

Sheen's Shadow had been like that since the beef curry had been set before her.
To her surprise, Sheen had quickly grown accustomed to the inner nagging;
either that, or she was too famished to argue overmuch. 'It's great; can't you
taste it for yourself?'

YES, AND I'M A VEGETARIAN.

Sheen grunted, the corner of her lip rising. 'Live with it; eating meat's not a
crime - yet. Of course, you can always turn the machinery off at your end
permanently. After all, you never know when I might take the urge to chew on
some animal flesh in the middle of the night. Raw.'

I CAN CONTROL THE AMOUNT OF SENSORY INPUT, THANK YOU.

'Well, bully for you.' Sheen found herself absently clinking her fork against
her plate, as she stared up at the gaudy paper ceiling lanterns, as if her
Shadow hung there, an invisible, disagreeable guardian angel. 'So what's it
like, feeling what somebody else is experiencing?'

The Shadow didn't answer immediately. IT CAN BE... DISORIENTING. I HAVE TO KEEP
MY OWN EYES CLOSED, MINIMISE OTHER SENSORY DISTRACTIONS AROUND ME, OR MY BRAIN
RECEIVES CONFLICTING INPUT. BUT ONCE ACCUSTOMED TO IT, IT BECOMES SECOND
NATURE.

'What's you name, by the way?'

I WAS ADVISED NOT TO REVEAL IT.

'I can't just keep saying, "Hey, you."'

A pregnant pause, then, FLORENCE.

'Nice to meet you, Flo - so to speak. Maybe we can get together over a few
drinks, discuss this arrangement-'

THAT WOULD NOT ONLY BE BREAKING THE CONDITIONS OF YOUR PAROLE, BUT WOULD WEAKEN
THE PROFESSIONAL DISTANCE I WISH TO MAINTAIN BETWEEN US. YOU'RE MY
RESPONSIBILITY, AND UNLIKE YOURSELF, I TAKE MY RESPONSIBILITIES VERY SERIOUSLY.

Sheen dropped her fork long enough to make a familiar, cocktail-shaking fist
gesture before her.

YOU'RE DISGUSTING.

Sheen grinned, her grin dropping when she realised the other patrons were
watching her, seemingly talking to herself.

'Sheen!'

'Spark!' Sheen nearly toppled her chair over in her rush to rise and clasp the
newcomer, before kissing him, their mouths open, their tongues entwined.

STOP THAT, Florence urged, IT'S UNHYGIENIC.

Sheen ignored her, but drew back, still clutching him. Spark was a tall, wiry
man her own age, his skin as black as a piano key, his head shaved smooth and
clean, as shiny as his black leather sleeveless shirt, trousers and boots. He
smacked his lips, grinning Cheshire. 'Still tasty as ever, girl.'

'Sure it's not my curry?'

He laughed. 'You're tastier. When'd you get out?'

'This morning. Parole.'

Spark moaned with mock horror. 'Wicked bitch.' His hand ran up to stroke her
neck, stopping at the bandage. 'Hey, what happened?'

Sheen began to explain, then Florence spoke inside her head: PERHAPS I SHOULD
REMIND YOU OF THE CONFIDENTIALITY AGREEMENT YOU SIGNED, PREVENTING YOU FROM
SPEAKING ABOUT THE PROJECT UNTIL ITS COMPLETION, DUE TO THE REGULATED NATURE OF
THE TECHNOLOGY-

'I know!' Sheen snapped, blinking and calming down as she reminded herself that
only she could hear her Shadow's voice. She looked up into Spark's sky-blue
eyes. 'Sorry. I got in a fight in the prison showers.'

'Poor cow.' He leaned closer, his grin a cheetah's smile. 'Looks like you'll be
needing some Tender Loving Care tonight - along with a few drinks, a few tabs
of Surge, maybe a moonlight drive in a "borrowed" car?'

MISS MCCLOSKEY-

Sheen ignored her. 'Sounds good.'

MISS MCCLOSKEY, I SHOULD ALSO POINT OUT THAT ANY CRIME I SEE OR HEAR ABOUT
THROUGH YOU CAN BE RECORDED, AND MAY BE USED IN EVIDENCE IN A LATER TRIAL
INVOLVING YOUR DISREPUTABLE FRIENDS.

Sheen froze. 'You wouldn't do that.'

WHY NOT? IT'S MY JOB.

Spark laughed again, thinking Sheen's denial was addressed to him. 'Oh, of
course not.'

Sheen drew back, letting her arms fall limply to her sides. 'Maybe some other
time, Spark, okay? I'm a little beat, after being in stir. I need a few days to
get my head together.'

Spark, looking confused at first, nodded dumbly and backed away. 'Yeah, well,
that's okay, I understand. Give us a call when you're ready, right?'

'Sure, lover.'

He left the restaurant, and Sheen sat down again, staring blankly at her food.

YOU DID THE RIGHT THING, Florence assured her. NOTHING GOOD COULD COME OF
ASSOCIATING WITH THE LIKES OF HIM. NOW FINISH YOUR MEAL; AS LOATHSOME AS IT IS,
TO WASTE IT WOULD BE A SIN.

Sheen lifted her fork, but found she'd lost her appetite.

The flat was pretty much as she left it; her flatmates were out, and, judging
from her section of the wardrobe and dresser drawers, in some of Sheen's better
clothes.

She wanted a bath. She wanted the cold communal prison showers - and the
incident with Spark - behind her, and indulge in a long, hot, sensuous bubble
bath. Normally impatient and mercurial by nature, it was the only activity for
which she didn't mind taking her time.

Well, maybe not the only activity.

As the water continued to gurgle into the tub next door, Sheen stripped off and
paused to admire herself in the bedroom mirror. But perhaps "admire" was too
positive a word: she often thought her shock of ginger hair too vivid, like a
fistful of red-hot nails, her chin and cheekbones too strong-looking, her
breasts too small, and her frame too long and lean - perfect for ballet, her
mother would say, oblivious to Sheen's utter disinterest in such lofty cultural
pursuits.

She liked her tattoos, though, perhaps because they were the only part of her
body over which she had any real control: the galloping horse on her shoulder;
the butterfly on her right breast, perched on her nipple; the rosebud on her
left thigh; and especially the defiant eagle below her navel, wings
outstretched towards her hips, its claws seemingly digging into the trimmed
nest of her pubic hair. It was a favourite, both for herself and for many
lovers - well, when there was enough light and sobriety between them for it to
be noticed.

WHY DON'T YOU STOP FLAUNTING YOURSELF AND TAKE YOUR BATH?

Sheen's arms shot up reflexively to cover herself, and her face grew taut at
her own reflection, as if it had spoken to her. 'Why don't you stop bothering
me and fuck off? You've already made me turn away one of my friends!'

HE'S NOT A FRIEND. HE'S THE TYPE THAT HELPED LEAD YOU INTO YOUR PRESENT STATE.
I'VE SEEN YOUR RECORD: UNDERAGE DRINKING, CURFEW VIOLATIONS, GROSS DISORDER AND
INDECENCY, PETTY THEFT, BENEFIT FRAUD-

'Blah, blah, blah.' Sheen seemed to consider the air, then asked, 'How old are
you, Flo?'

No answer.

Sheen could almost hear the embarrassment in the silence, and went in for the
kill. 'I bet you're an 83-year old homebound spinster, whose idea of fun is
drinking herbal tea and feeding your cat.' She pulled her hands away from her
front and rested her hands challengingly on her hips; she had no problem with
other women seeing her naked, even through her own eyes. 'Well, I'm a 25-year
old bachelorette, whose idea of fun is drinking hard cider and feeding my
pussy. So, sit back and enjoy the show, 'cause it's probably more fun than
you've ever gotten up to.'

Still no answer.

The water, cloudy and dancing with steam, was luxurious! Sheen lay back fully
and closed her eyes, feeling the suds slide down her kneecaps, now raised up
and poking out of the water like twin islands. She'd removed her bandage and
felt the stitches - at least they didn't have to shave much of her hair back
there - before letting the bathwater pillow the now-bared skin.

Florence the Feeble had been silent for the last half-hour now, raising a smile
of opportunity on Sheen's thin, pale lips. So, all she needed to do to silence
her invisible minder for a while was to strip off and talk dirty - neither
action a problem for her. Assuming the old bag would be monitoring her that
often, which Sheen felt unlikely; Florence'd probably be content just to check
in on her every so often, all the while collecting her paycheques from the
Parole Agency. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

She felt her nipples peak beneath the water, and her hands danced lightly along
her charged skin to meet them, as her pussy called for attention, reminding her
how long it had been since her last lover - not counting the fumbling foreplay
indulged in with the prettier of her cellmates. She would have brought Spark
back to her flat this afternoon for a shag, had it not been for... but she
pushed that aside.

Her right hand guided its way from her now-swollen breasts and massaged her
equally aching mound, grinding down on it, pretending it was Spark's hand, and
pretending to resist his attentions, avoiding her throbbing clitoris.

She bit her lip, eyes still shut, head arching back until only her face
remained above water, and imagined her finger was now Spark's tongue, licking
her wet bush in lazy strokes, tasting her before finding its way further
inside. She raised one leg up until it hung over the edge of the tub, offering
easier access. She wanted this to last, but Florence had eroded her patience.

She swallowed water as her body jerked, and her pussy clamped down on her
fingers, resisting further in order to increase the pleasure. Her thumb
maneuvered to massage her clitoris, completing the circuit that finally brought
Sheen a long, strong, well-deserved climax, overflowing like the bathwater and
bringing a ragged moan from her lips. Then she sighed and relaxed, drawing her
exposed leg back into the bathwater's arm embrace.

I'M THIRTY-THREE.

Sheen started, splashing bathwater again, her voice cushioned by the ceramic-
tiled walls surrounding her. 'Pardon?'

I'M THIRTY-THREE, AND I DON'T LIKE TEA, OR CATS.

'Oh.' Sheen could feel herself blush, and not from the ambient heat in the
bathroom. How long had Florence been on-line, monitoring her?

Feeling what Sheen had just done with herself? Did the implant allow for that
level of eavesdropping?

And if Sheen had known beforehand, would she have behaved any differently? If
so, why? Why should she be ashamed of her own feelings and actions? It was
hardly a parole-breaking offence, after all (at least, in the privacy of her
own frigging bath!).

MISS MCCLOSKEY - SHEEN - I WANT TO HELP YOU. I CAN SEE NOW YOU'RE NOT A BAD
GIRL, NOT AT HEART, SIMPLY MISDIRECTED. I WANT TO PUT YOU ON THE RIGHT COURSE.

Sheen stared at the dying swirls of suds in the water. 'Maybe I like the course
I'm taking? You're not as old as I thought you were- you know how fun it is to
go out drinking, clubbing-

NO, I DON'T. I WAS IN AN ACCIDENT WHEN I WAS THIRTEEN; IT PARALYSED ME FROM THE
CHEST DOWN.

Sheen bolted upright, feeling her jaw drop, recalling and regretting her
taunting of Florence earlier. 'I'm- I'm sorry- I didn't know-'

OF COURSE YOU DIDN'T. DON'T PITY ME; I WON'T LET IT STOP ME FROM BEING A
PRODUCTIVE MEMBER OF SOCIETY - BY HELPING YOU BECOME ONE, TOO. YOU HAVE ALL THE
CHANCES I WISH I HAD. I KNOW IT MAY BE DIFFICULT FOR YOU, BUT YOU'LL THANK ME
FOR IT IN THE END. OKAY?

'Okay,' Sheen somehow found herself saying.

Silence again. Sheen lifted the round lavender soapbar from its tray and began
sculpting suds into her hands, 'Florence? Are you still there?'

No answer.

She'd been found a job, as part of an office cleaning crew: crap work, but it
was either that, or be removed from Supplementary Benefits altogether and be
forced to find a real job. Fortunately the other girls in the crew were in
similar situations, some had even been recently released from prison, though
none had a scar like Sheen's.

Over the weeks, under Florence's insistence, she declined their repeated offers
of spending their Friday paycheques clubbing, until they stopped asking,
figuring her for a stolid homebody - probably one who prefers drinking tea and
feeding cats. Past boyfriends like Spark would look her up to renew old illicit
acquaintances and schemes, only to be fobbed off with lame excuse after lame
excuse. After a while, even her flatmates, thinking she "turned" lesbian while
in prison, began avoiding her.

Florence didn't, though. Despite her initial reticence about maintaining more
than the minimum communication between them, Sheen's Shadow conversed with her
several times each day, advising on such subjects as savings, decorum,
morality, respect for authority and for oneself. It wasn't a question of being
forbidden going out to get bevvied and laid, she was assured, though not in
such coarse language, obviously; it was how she, and her friends, would behave
when the alcohol and hormones and bravado took over. She was goaded into taking
out the "right" type of library books, buying "sensible" clothes, and attending
evening courses where Sheen could meet "respectable" gentlemen. It was like
being at home again, only Sheen couldn't go and lock her bedroom door on
Florence. But, like with her mother, she'd learned to nod and make assenting
sounds in all the appropriate places, as if she was really listening.

Another fortnight dragged on under the new regime, another fortnight of days of
work, evenings of television, and nights with her right hand. And though
Florence never spoke once Sheen went to bed, Sheen was certain she was still
with her, the ultimate Peeping Tom, voyeur, participant and recipient all in
one, behind her eyes; the irony was not lost on Sheen.

Her eyes. Slumped on her couch, she rose and left it and her television as she
approached her bedroom mirror and gazed in disbelief at her reflection. Her
eyes had grown hollowed, almost darkly bruised, and her face, once sturdy and
defiant, now seemed haggard and pale. She felt like... like a thoroughbred,
made to pull a milkfloat instead of win the Derby. Harnessed, imprisoned in
spirit if not in body.

This was wrong. Too wrong. She turned off the TV and lights and went to bed,
closing her eyes - and waiting, waiting for Florence, if she was still there,
to get bored and go off-line. Then, much later, she rose and stripped off, took
a quick, cold shower, toweled herself down and dragged out her best party gear,
the outfit reserved for only the direst emergencies: black glitter sleeveless
torque top that left her midriff bare, matching miniskirt and ankle boots,

She'd hesitated, waiting for Flo to intervene. But Sheen had been unrebellious
for quite a while, and even Flo had to sleep sometime. Her hands were shaking
as she applied lipstick, deodorant and perfume, but she no longer moved with
the same needless exaggerated stealth as she retrieved her leather jacket and
left the flat.

Outside, however, she hadn't gone down the road before she was overcome with a
fit of convulsive shivering; she had to stop and sit on a bus stop bench and
wrap her arms about herself. For a mad moment, she imagined this to be some
automatic response triggered by the implant, still on-line even if Flo wasn't.
But then the shivering stopped, and she was calmer, content to sit there a
moment longer, staring at the estate surrounding her, dark tower blocks like
canyon walls, their faces dotted with light.

She mustn't allow herself to think she was safe; Flo may be off-line now, but
that couldn't last long. She would have preferred a stop at a pub to get
bevvied, but instead headed straight for the Batcave. Set inside the burnt-out
remains of a half-dozen barricaded minimall storefronts, it was known and
operated only by the local clubbers. The interior resembled a revamped fun
house, the floor spotted with supporting walls and columns, around which an
ocean of humanity - longhairs, buckoes, straights, wannabees, G-Men, calypsoes
- bobbed and flowed and crashed together, caught in the steel-edged Siren spell
of the recorded music booming from the speakers.

Sheen was immediately caught in its spell, too, diving into the dance floor
crowd, disappearing and resurfacing towards the centre. She was one with the
people, basking in their heat and company, no longer alone with just her - and
Florence's - thoughts.

Then she literally bumped into Spark, practically propelling herself onto him
with joy, grinding her mouth onto his, hands wrapped around and squeezing the
tight cheeks she found in his leather trousers. He mirrored her actions, as if
the last six weeks' of enforced distance between them hadn't happened, his
erection pressing into her crotch. She grinned to herself at his response; men
were such wonderfully predictable creatures. He was shouting something, but she
couldn't hear, or care, holding onto him and refusing to let go, her line to
her old life regained. When they didn't dance, they smoked, or shared some of
Russia's more dubious contributions to the cider culture; it made shampoo taste
like champagne, or so Sheen imagined, not having imbibed either. But it helped
reawaken her spirits, left a raw, potent taste on her mouth.

And sent her to the toilets forthwith - or at least, what passed for the
Batcave's toilets. It was here that the inevitable finally arrived. SHEENA?
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

Sheen was half-prepared for this, but still had to fight back that stomach-
dropping feeling as she glanced at the graffitied walls surrounding her. 'Three
guesses.'

THIS ISN'T OUR TOILET- WHERE ARE YOU?

"Our" toilet? Sheen had noted. 'I'm out. It's Friday. Payday. Something has to
be done about that.'

BUT YOU'LL GET INTO TROUBLE HERE.

Sheen's face grew taut with determination. 'I certainly hope so.'

HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT? AFTER ALL THE WORK WE'VE DONE, TO KEEP YOU FROM
TEMPTATION-

'To change who I am. And you can't.'

Now the more familiar smugness from the beginning of their bizarre relationship
returned. OH, CAN'T I? ONE CALL TO THE PAROLE AGENCY AND-

'-And I stop being your puppet?' Sheen shrugged. 'Some threat.'

YOU KNOW VERY WELL I'M NOT CONTROLLING YOU.

'Maybe not through the implant, but through intimidation, guilt-'

GUILT? ME?

'Yes. And all the while, you're envious of me. Envious of my freedom.'

NEED I REMIND YOU OF MY DISABILITY?

'Balls. I've seen others with worse disabilities having as much fun as I do.
You just use it as an excuse to hide in your home, living life through me.'

OH, PLEASE... Sheen could almost see the sneer on the other woman's face.
YOU'RE DOOMED TO RIDE THE ROAD TO RE-IMPRISONMENT, YOU POOR GIRL.

Sheen smirked back. '"No man is poor, who can do what he likes."'

Florence sounded genuinely surprised by the quote. WHO SAID THAT? SHAKESPEARE?

'Scrooge McDuck. And before you condemn the road I take, why not travel it with
me for a while, to see if it's worth what might await me at the end?'

I DON'T HAVE TO SEE-

Commotion made Sheen glance up and listen, before quickly rising and drawing up
her knickers. 'Shit, it's the Blackjacks!'

WHO?

'Police - it's a raid!'

The music had stopped, replaced by a discordant choir of shouts and curses.
Pandemonium had erupted throughout the Batcave, and throngs of clubbers
scattered and bounced, tripped and tumbled into each other in an attempt to
escape the grasp of the black-armoured gatecrashers with their shocksticks and
snapcuffs. Some of the clubbers had the sense to drop various things from their
pockets, so as not to be caught with them in their possession.

Sheen went with the flow, jumping into the stream of racing arms and legs that
hurtled desperately towards the pre-arranged exits in the rear of the shops. At
one point she had to crawl through a metre-wide tunnel, feeling like an escapee
from some old war film. She also had to endure intrusive fingers on her bum,
from whomever was directly behind her and copping a feel, at this of all times;
she nearly kicked them in the face.

And was glad she didn't. 'Spark!'

He helped her to her feet and shouted, 'Run!'

She didn't have to be told twice. Klaxons and spotlights filled the air as
clubbers scattered in all directions, some being caught by Blackjack snatch
squads, others disappearing into the darkness in steadily diminishing groups.
Sheen had been clutching Spark's hand while they ran, but now let go and used
her arm to hold down her breasts, protesting as they bounced roughly against
her chest. She spared only one glance back, to see Blackjacks loading slower
clubbers into their War Wagons.

HURRY- HURRY- DON'T LET THEM CATCH US!

Had she breath and energy to spare, Sheen would have laughed aloud; so much for
Flo maintaining a professional distance.

They rounded a corner when Spark slowed down, then stopped; Sheen copied him,
knowing he wouldn't stop without good reason. Another couple from the club - a
short, bouncy, freckled blonde in silver and a brash blonde beanpole in green
coveralls and little else - were deactivating the alarm and opening the doors
of a sleek black limousine. The couple hopped into the front seats; Spark
entered the rear, Sheen following unquestioningly.

She had little time to admire the plush interior of the limo, as Spark fought
his rapid breathing long enough to point to the blonde, now behind the wheel
and starting up the engine. 'Emma- her Dad's limo-'

Sheen nodded, leaning back as Emma started down the road, purposely keeping the
speed down so as not to attract attention. Then Sheen closed her eyes,
murmuring an indistinct prayer that the Blackjacks would hardly suspect this
vehicle as a getaway.

To her surprise, she received an answer of sorts. THAT WAS- THAT WAS-
EXHILARATING!

Sheen finally managed a ragged laugh. Flo sounded as if she'd run the quarter-
mile, too; another effect of the linkup? Beside her, Spark looked just as
exhausted, though not too exhausted not to rest his hand on Sheen's thigh.

Inside her head, Florence continued. I THOUGHT- I THOUGHT WE'D GET CAUGHT- WE
WERE SO CLOSE- IT WAS WONDERFUL.

'Yes,' Sheen nodded. She saw Spark nod, too, for no reason than to seem
attentive. 'The thrill of the chase-'

YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND. I HAVEN'T RUN, I HAVEN'T WALKED PROPERLY FOR TWENTY
YEARS. I'VE SECRETLY ENJOYED IT WHENEVER I FELT YOU WALK, BUT THIS- THIS WAS A
HUNDRED TIMES BETTER.

Despite her feelings towards her, Sheen couldn't help but feel empathy for
Florence now. But the window of opportunity she had wanted was now open, and
pressed forward. 'Is that why you broke your own rules back there, and didn't
advise me to turn myself in when the Blackjacks had arrived?'

'Huh?' Spark grunted, only half-listening.

Florence didn't respond, making Sheen grin further. 'What else have you
secretly enjoyed?'

Now Spark peered at her. 'Is your head on right, girl?'

She didn't answer him, as Emma pulled the limo to a stop; Sheen peered out the
tinted windows to find they were in a carpark of some mall, long-since closed
for the night. Emma glanced to her passengers and smiled, even as the Beanpole
was unbutton her blouse. 'Dad brings all his girlfriends here; no one bothers a
limo-' She didn't finish the rest, as Beanpole pulled her forward into a long,
deep kiss.

Sheen disregarded them, and the noises they were making in the front seats, as
she shucked off her jacket and top, exposing her breasts and upper body to the
cool caress of the air-conditioned limo interior. Spark made a sound of
approval and reached for her, but she gently slapped him away, even as she
moved to sit on his lap, a bad little girl shamelessly seeking a special
surprise from Santa. Spark and she kissed again, tongues dancing together, as
she undid the buttons on his shirt and ran her hands over his hairy, sweaty
chest.

She could feel his hardness again as it pressed into her bum, and as she opened
her eyes to comment, she noticed him staring ahead, to the gently bobbing
blonde mane of Emma. She nuzzled into his neck and whispered, 'Did you fuck her
while I was in prison?'

Spark laughed and nuzzled back, sending mild electric shocks through her.
'Would it bother you if I had?'

'Only if she was better than me.'

'Well, I don't know-'

'Get my knickers off.'

Spark obliged, tugging the skimpy fabric down from her bum and along the length
of her legs, before returning to explore the wet, waiting flesh of her cheeks.

'Never mind there,' she admonished.

He understood, laughing softly, 'Nice to see the Eagle again', stroking the
outline of her tattoo, before descending to her pussy, wet and eager for his
touch. His thumb found her clitoris, too, and using a well-practised rhythm she
enjoyed, made her sigh and dig her nails into his arms. 'More- More-'

He eagerly obliged, taking it further by roughly pushing the entire length of
his finger into her. She bit her lip, her hips gyrating-

OH GOD- GOD-

Florence was still with her, feeling what Sheen was feeling, an unconventional
menage a trois if there ever was one.

Good. Sheen pulled his hand away and slipped from his lap onto the plush floor
of the limo, removing her knickers from around her ankles completely. Still on
her knees, she unzipped and unbuttoned his trousers, pulling them and his tight
briefs to his knees, then his ankles. From an ebony cluster of pubic hair,
Spark's cock rose, its damask head emerging glistening from its foreskin
covering.

SHEEN, HE'S SO BIG.

Sheen nearly laughed. 'Yes, well, let's not tell him; men are egotistical
enough as it is.' She returned Spark's inquiring gaze with the command, 'Time
to soar with the Eagle.' She reached out and grasped his member, drawing the
foreskin back and forth, enjoying the reaction on his face. Then one condom
application later, and she was on him again, using her same hand to guide his
erection between her labia, letting the head part her and find its way along
her hot, tight channel, her juices easing the penetration.

OH GOD, YES...

Sheen was beginning to think Flo was enjoying this more than Sheen was; but
then, this wasn't so new to Sheen. She grinned; it was like sharing a generous
slice of double chocolate gateau with a friend. She was fully on Spark's lap
now, as much of his cock as he had to offer rudely stuck in her as she
straddled him. She rode him roughly, her pussy gripping hard on his shaft until
he grimaced, before releasing him, then gripping him again.

HARDER- FASTER-

'Harder- faster-' Sheen echoed, ensure if she was voicing Flo's pleas, or her
own. She leaned forward and began biting and nipping at his neck and shoulders,
while he made resonant yelping and gasping noises in response. He spoiled her
rhythm by arching her backwards, supporting her by her lower back while leaning
forward and suckling on her breast; but as his repositioning had also slightly
changed his angle of penetration, Sheen didn't mind much.

Sheen felt his cock throb for relief inside her, and she rode him harder and
faster, determined to join him in his climax. The car was filled with furious
grunts and pleas of passion, some only in Sheen's head, she knew; that drove
her, almost as much as the act itself. Beneath her, Spark's orgasm burst from
him as he shuddered in the seat, lifting them both up and making a swishing
sound as his sweat-beaded flesh separated from the vinyl. Sheen's pussy
squeezed harder around him, driving her own radiant waves of pleasure back to
their source, milking his spasms of terrible bliss for all they were worth, and
more.

Spark leaned back, Sheen falling on top of him, their sweat intermingling,
their breath on each other's shoulders rapid, their lips forming weak smiles of
gratitude that the sweet ordeal was finally over. Sheen gently nibbled on his
ear, licking the inner curves, tasting him, listening to the continued action
in the front seat.

Somehow he found his voice again. 'I've decided: you're much better than Emma.'

'Of course. You weren't so bad yourself, stud.'

BAD? HE WAS BRILLIANT. CAN HE- CAN HE DO IT AGAIN?

And Sheen began to laugh, and continued laughing long after Spark stop asking
her why.

END

This story is part of White_Shadow's_Nasty_Stories.
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