Reason to Believe

Everything had changed. When the twin towers of the World Trade Center came down, they took with them the serenity in which they'd stood for three decades. It was a whole new ball game.
    Michelle Myers and Louis Kerpalscheiker had been in the field on assignment in the Ukraine, employing Michelle's excellent command of the Russian language as well as her startling physical attributes in an effort to gain information about weapons-grade plutonium for sale on the black market. When news of the attack reached them, they fell into a state of shock that was shared by the world. William Hudson, Director of the Federal Bureau of Gigantic Bosoms, was on the phone to them within the hour with orders to return home as soon as they could.
    Getting back into the United States was difficult and drawn out, but in a few days they were back in Washington DC. On their way to FBGB headquarters, flags were flying everywhere and though they were at half-staff, they'd never looked more beautiful.

As soon as they reported in, Hudson called them into his office and briefed them on the situation. He explained that until further notice they were to set aside all cases they were currently pursuing. By order of the President of the United States, all branches of the Justice Department, including the FBGB, were being pooled together to focus on identifying and apprehending the individuals responsible for the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Though few facts were known yet, the information they did have pointed to the organization 'al-Qaeda', a loosely knit group of extremists who were responsible for a number of major terrorist acts around the world during the past few years.
    Hudson slid a folder across his desk toward Mich, who picked it up and opened it, leaning toward Kerp so he could view the contents with her. Sitting beside her, the contact between their shoulders felt almost like electricity, distracting him somewhat from the assignment they were being given.
    "The man in the photograph is Yazid al-Madini. He's 37 years old, one of the main movers and shakers in the al-Qaeda organization, and by all accounts a brute killer. We're pretty sure he's in the country at this time — illegally I might add — and we have reason to believe he's currently in charge of organizing another strike of some kind. I'm assigning you two to locate, and if possible, apprehend him alive. If you can't manage that last detail, I'll accept him otherwise.
    "We have reports that indicate this man may be fixated on large breasts. Federal agents have observed al-Madini or someone looking very much like him frequenting titty bars in South Florida, Boston, New York, and here in DC. That's about all we have on him at the moment."
    "Director Hudson," Michelle began, "Since al-Madini appears to be a breast man, will I be used as a lure?"
    Hudson dropped his eyes and looked squarely at her huge tits. Kerp was amused by the behavior, but automatically followed Hudson's gaze and gawked at them himself. Michelle's breasts were amazing. He could never quite get used to how big they were, which was understandable since they were, in fact, continually getting bigger.
    Looking back to Mich's eyes, Hudson continued with a sigh, "I'm afraid we don't have any kind of specific plan at this point. Later when we know more, we can work on formal planning, but for now you two are going to have to improvise."
    Kerp was still looking at Mich's boobs.
    "This whole al-Qaeda case is gonna be a tough nut to crack," Hudson said. "It'll take a lot of work and a lot of time, but we'll get these people. We have to."

They left Hudson's office and were walking down the hall toward their area when they met a pretty blonde Agent with an amazingly huge pair of boobs, which bounced and wobbled heavily as she came toward them.
    "Hi ya, Kerp!" she exclaimed upon recognizing him. She slithered up to him and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him into her giant bosom.
    Michelle eyed the ID tag clipped to the woman's breast pocket. It was hard to read because its face was nearly horizontal due to the extreme protuberance of the mammaries upon which it rested. Michelle made out her name nonetheless: Amelia Craighead.
    "Kerp, it's so great to see you again!" she gushed as she stepped back and put her hands on her hips to present the full effect of her imposing bosom.
    "Yeah, good to see you, too."
    "Where've you been hiding? I asked everyone about you after I got back in the country a couple months ago, but nobody knew where you were."
    "We were in the Ukraine. Just got called back here. Were you on some kind of deep cover assignment or something?"
    "Yeah, Libya of all places. Ain't that a hoot!"
    "No kidding. You sort of dropped off the face of the Earth without a word about three years ago!"
    "Five years ago. I was on a black op mission and I couldn't tell anyone. Not even to say good-bye!"
    "So now you're back. Mission successful?"
    Amelia smiled beguilingly and answered, "Well, I got to know Mr Qaddafi real good, and eventually talked him into seeing things our way on one issue in particular."
    Kerp's face brightened. "Not the Lockerbie bombers?" She grinned and nodded. "Too cool, Amy! Nice work!"
    "Thanks Kerp. Next I'll be going down to south Florida on assignment."
    "Yeah? What's going on?"
    "We think some of the terrorists may be extreme mammophiles, so my job is to go lay out on the beach in my bikini. Or maybe half of it. I get to stay at a real luxury hotel!"
    "Gee — tough work."
    "It's where we think some of the al-Qaeda operatives have been living."
    "Oh, I see. Well, be careful. Uh, Amy, this is my partner, Michelle Myers; Mich, this is Amelia Craighead."
    Michelle, who'd been wondering if Kerp was ever going to remember she was standing there, shook hands with the other woman, whose smile seemed to suddenly freeze to death on her face as she turned toward Mich.
    "Nice to meet you," they both said unconvincingly.
    Turning back to Kerp, Amelia moved close enough to him for the tip of one of her huge breasts to poke him. Fingering the edge of his collar, she murmured without regard for subtlety, "If you've got a few minutes later, I'll be in the Microfilm Libary all afternoon." And with that, she winked and sauntered away.
    As Kerp and Michelle resumed their passage down the hall, she commented, "It amazes me that the fate of the free world can be placed in the hands of someone who doesn't know there are two Rs in the word 'library'."
    Kerp grinned and nodded. "Yeah, well — she did get the job done."
    "It took her five years."
    "She is fully qualified."
    "I'm sure you're right. They looked like a very full set of qualifications to me."
    Kerp smiled. A person who didn't know better might think Mich was jealous. Actually, she'd hit the nail pretty squarely on the head about Amy: her secret nickname around the bureau was Amelia Airhead. Though Kerp found the moniker unnecessarily cruel, he was nonetheless extremely glad that he'd gotten Mich as a partner instead. Glad for more reasons than one.

The Gulf breeze felt refreshingly cool on Regina's face as she walked toward her car. The music emanating from the club behind her suddenly increased in volume as the back door opened. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a man walking toward her under the greenish yellow lights of the parking lot, and wondered what he was up to. Then she recognized him as the patron who had been stuffing twenty-dollar bills into her G-string all night. She didn't mind putting up with that kind of guy.
    That had been happening to her much more liberally since she'd gotten her enlargement, and she was enjoying the increase in her standard of living as much as that of her bust size. She was glad she'd paid the extra money for such big implants, even though she had to buy all new blouses and bras, and put up with disapproving looks from Florida's considerable population of little old retired ladies.
    "Excuse me!" the man called.
    She stopped, relieved that one of the bouncers was standing in the open doorway, keeping an eye on the approaching man. "Can I help you, sir?" Regina asked.
    "Si. I am wondering, I lose my beautiful Rolex watch, and I need to know if you find it?"
    "Uh — no, sir, I didn't see a watch. Did you ask inside?"
    "Ehh — No, I did not."
    "You ought to. It'd be a shame to lose such an expensive watch."
    "Aa — no matter! I will buy another. So, you are going home now?"
    "Yep, that was my last performance. By the way, I want to thank you for being so generous tonight."
    The man eyed Regina's cleavage, arcing high onto her chest from within the d�colletage of her skin-tight dress. "It is my pleasure."
    Her H-cup breasts jutted out boldly in front of her, exaggerating the dress's horizontal red and white striped pattern that encircled them. The implants had filled her boobs tightly, and she took advantage of that extra constriction by going braless occasionally, such as on a nice early autumn evening night like this. The only problem was the cool moist breeze blowing in from the Gulf made her nipples stand out — and she had some astonishingly large nipples. She had considered them her best feature prior to having her breasts enlarged. At this point, however, having them thrusting out so very prominently didn't necessarily qualify as a problem. Let this guy have an eyeful. He was loaded, after all, and he seemed to really like her.
    "Beautiful night, isn't it?" she said, rotating her torso to look toward the beach, while not so subtly displaying her protrusive profile.
    "It is indeed. It reminds me of the nighttime in my home of Barcelona, Spain."
    "Oh, so you're a Spaniard!"
    "Si."
    "How romantic!"
    "My name is Juan Vasquez."
    "Regina Hauser," she said, extending her hand. "My professional name is Mandy Melons, of course. I used to be Nancy Nipples, but I changed it a couple months ago after I got my boob job."
    "Oh, yes."
    "Like 'em? Forty-seven inches," she declared proudly, sticking out her chest."
    He was almost drooling as he leered at her and answered, "I admire them very much indeed! You would like to go for walk on beach?"
    "That sounds like a wonderful idea!"
    He escorted her toward the surf with his arm around her waist, looking down her neckline at her big bobbling tits as they walked. They soon stepped onto the beach and began strolling alongside the lapping waves, talking as they went. The beach was deserted at that hour, and soon, Juan Vasquez stopped and took her in his arms.
    She responded to him, reaching her lips up toward his, and as they kissed, his hands slipped onto her electrifyingly large boobs. He squeezed them and kneaded them thoroughly, becoming fully aroused. She pulled the top of her dress down to her waist, baring her swollen breasts for him, enflaming his lust even more.
    Her fingers went to the vicinity of his belt buckle, undoing and unfastening things until they found his engorged, upright member. Regina appreciated a nice big dick, no matter what people always say about how it's used. She stroked its impressive length and traced around the rim of its head in a way she knew drove men crazy with desire. He then began tracing her giant nipples the same way, with the same effect. Their foreplay steadily intensified to fever pitch.
    They paused only long enough for him to kick off his trousers and remove the rest of his clothes, while she slipped her dress down and stepped out of it. She wasn't wearing panties. The moon bathed her bosomy figure in its soft pale light, creating deep shadows around her extravagant curvature. He grasped her wonderfully large tits once again, and the two lovers lowered themselves onto the sand. Regina was careful to scoot her dress under her fanny so she wouldn't get sand all up in there, but she wasn't careful enough to insist her new boyfriend use a condom.
    Her boobs pressed against his chest and billowed out to the sides lavishly as he lay on top of her. She guided him inside her, thrilled at the girth and length of the shaft that began to repeatedly plumb her deepest recesses. He fucked her hard and he fucked her good: by the time he came, Regina had climaxed three times.
    She lay on the sand panting as she watched him get up and put his clothes back on. "Baby," she said with a giggle of exhausted pleasure, "this could be the beginning of a long and beautiful..."
    Regina was interrupted when Juan Vasquez took a small semi-automatic pistol from his pants pocket and shot her between the eyes. He was about to shoot her again, but checked himself when he recognized the expression on her face and heard the death rattle come from her throat: there was no reason to risk drawing attention with further gunfire.
    The shot had sounded no louder than a mere pop against the crashing of the surf. He looked up and down the beach, and there was still no one in sight. He put the pistol back in his pocket and hiked back to his car, which he'd parked on a dark side street near the strip club. The few cars that were still in the club's parking lot belonged to employees who were inside cleaning up, and he was not seen getting in his car or driving away.
    Regina's vehicle stayed in the parking lot all weekend, but questions wouldn't be raised about it until Monday afternoon. Regina was known to frequently leave her car in the club's lot whenever she went home with a new boyfriend.
    High tide carried her body away before the light of dawn. Weeks later, her remains were found 140 miles away, badly decomposed and picked at by marine scavengers. It took authorities almost a month to connect the disappearance of Regina Hauser to her unidentified body. Her murder was never solved.

With the horror yet fresh in their minds and their anger still running hot, those first weeks of the war against terrorism passed with agonizing sluggishness. The work was necessarily slow and painstaking. Mich and Kerp sat at their desks, pursuing preliminary investigations and hoping something would open up for them. Michelle endeavored to gather background intelligence by phone, while Kerp studied the contents of a folder Hudson had given them. The information in the folder included an Abandoned Vehicle Report regarding a van found in Washington on September eleventh. It had been rented at Boston's Logan International Airport on the 10^th under a fictitious name that turned out to be one of Yazid al-Madini's known aliases.
    Turning to Michelle while she was between calls, Kerp complained, "AFIS doesn't have a record of al-Madini's fingerprints! We know enough about the man to put him on our list of prime suspects, but we don't have his prints?"
    "These guys are very smart and very careful — especially the leadership," Michelle answered. "They're like ghosts. They're good at being invisible."
    Kerp looked at one of the documents and commented, "I thought this was interesting. It says our man had a ticket on Flight 11."
    "No kidding?"
    "Yeah; never got on board. Do you think he chickened out?"
    "I doubt it. If these people are anything, they're dedicated to their cause. More likely it was a change of plans, or a screw-up, or it might even be some kind of disinformation. Where did they find prints?"
    "On a van that was rented in Boston and found abandoned here in DC on the eleventh."
    "Yeah? Abandoned where?"
    "Near the intersection of Connecticut Ave and L Street."
    "Connecticut and L," she repeated to herself as she closed her eyes to recollect what the location looked like. After a moment, she nodded. "Okay. I know right where that is. Let's go down there and ask around to see if anybody saw anything unusual on either the tenth or eleventh."
    "Like what?"
    "Anything. Even the smallest puzzle piece is a part of the whole, and it'll usually lead to some other piece. For example, do we know whether the van was abandoned on the eleventh, or could it have been left there the day before?"
    "It just says it was found on the eleventh."
    Mich rolled her chair over next to his and he showed her the AVR. "If we knew when he left it there," she said, "it would give us a better idea of the sequence of his activities during that time frame. It's probably nothing, but it might turn out to be helpful."
    Something deep in Kerp's soul glowed like a hot ember whenever she was this close to him. And with the flank of one of her huge boobs pushing against his arm, something slightly lower began warming up as well. "You're right. Why don't we go down there tomorrow morning at about 11:30 and canvas the lunch crowd? Then after they thin out, we could grab something to eat."
    "There's a really cute little diner about a half block from that intersection. I ate there with my parents a couple times when they came here to visit, right after I started working for the FBI."
    "Where do your folks live?"
    "A little town in upstate New York called Willow Grove. I grew up there. They come visit me as often as they can, and vice versa."
    "That's really nice."
    "What about your mom and dad? I've never heard you mention them."
     "No, I guess not."
    "How come? You get along with them okay?"
    Kerp was quiet for a moment and then answered, "Well — I don't talk about them much because it's a sad story and I don't like to inject that sort of thing into a conversation. The fact is that my parents were killed in a car wreck when I was 19."
    Michelle's facial expression filled with compassion for him, and she placed her hand on top of his. "I'm so sorry," she said gently.
    "It's okay."
    "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
    "Nope; just me."
    "Kerp — you're all alone?"
    He smiled and squeezed her hand. "Not really."

It was the first nippy day of the season and signs of autumn abounded. Mich wore a knee-length cardigan sweater that somewhat camouflaged her astonishing figure. Though it was powerless to hide the enormity of her bust, it did conceal her slender waist, and therefore onlookers who preferred to keep their sanity could let themselves assume that her extreme frontal projection was associated with a big tummy. Those who didn't care as much for their sanity as for a glimpse of the profound were not disappointed when they looked more closely.
    The agents stood on the sidewalk near an intersection, interviewing passers-by. They asked them if they'd been at that location on September tenth or eleventh, and if so, did they remember seeing anything unusual. Everyone was extremely cooperative, but nobody recalled a thing out of the ordinary. One older woman told Michelle, "The only unusual thing I've ever seen around here is you, sweetie!"
    By about 1:30 in the afternoon, they were ready to give up and go get lunch when Kerp noticed Michelle was standing stock still with her head held high, staring intently at something across the street. He followed her gaze but saw nothing. "What's up?" he asked her.
    "See that pole over there?"
    He looked across the street. "The one on the corner?"
    "Yeah; with the street sign and the light at the top."
    "Right."
    "See that thing just above the street sign? Isn't that a traffic cam?"
    Kerp studied it for a few seconds and nodded. "I think you're right. So there's a photographic record of this corner somewhere."
    "Exactly: a record of September tenth and eleventh," she added, trying to wrap the sweater around her expansive bust.
    "Maybe it's accessible on the internet somewhere."
    "Should be. All we need to do is get on-line."
    After a quick bite at a charming little luncheonette full of flabbergasted people, they went back to their office. Michelle sat down at her computer and launched a browser as Kerp stood behind her, looking over her shoulder (occasionally glancing at the monitor). She accessed a municipal site using her federal password, and found where the traffic cam photos for the tenth and eleventh of September were stored.
    "Alright. There are an awful lot of these here — let's narrow down our search. Do we know exactly what time the van was impounded?" Mich asked.
    Kerp stepped over to his desk and opened the file folder. "Uh — yes. Police had it towed at 4:12 PM on the eleventh," he informed her.
     "Okay, that's my starting point. And when was it rented?"
    Kerp turned to the copy of the rental contract and answered, "According to this it was rented at 10:52 AM on the tenth."
     "To be on the safe side, let's say he was in a big hurry and drove here from Boston in 7 hours, which puts his earliest possible arrival here at about 6:00 PM. So I'll begin my search with the photo taken closest to, but no later than 4:12 PM on the eleventh, and look for that make and model van, working my way backward in time until I find a picture where the vehicle does not appear. That'll be his time of arrival in DC. And if the van isn't shown in any of those photos, that means it was parked outside of the camera's frame."
    "How often do these traffic cams take pictures?"
    "Depends. Usually every ten minutes or so."
    "That's a lot to look through."
    "Yeah. But we gotta do it," she said, clicking her way through the directories until she found the photos. "Okay, what kind of vehicle, again?"
    "We're looking for a dark red 2001 Chevrolet Venture minivan," Kerp advised after checking the copy of the rental form again. He closed the folder and set it beside her on the desk. "I'll leave this here in case you need it."
    He went back to his own digging, checking back with her often to see how things were going. That was his rationale, anyway. His unconscious motivation was just as much to take the opportunity to look down the front of Mich's blouse again. It made him feel cheap and traitorous, but he was drawn to the sight of her profound cleavage like a moth to a flame. Her blouse wasn't what you'd call low-necked, but the view from above revealed much.

"Ahh! So is this photo the first one taken after the van was parked?"

Late in the afternoon, Kerp stopped by and stood behind her once more. As she sat waiting for the next photo to appear, she straightened up in her chair and pulled down on the front of her blouse, which had the effect of maximizing her d�colletage. He marveled once more at the glorious size of her breasts. As she settled back into her seat, the weight of her great bosom came back down to rest on the desk top, spreading out lavishly upon it. Her big nipples were poking out into the fabric of the blouse, encircled by an array of radial wrinkles that pointed to their location like a neon sign. He could see deep into her lush cleavage, and it made him want to climb down into it and snuggle between her boobs for a long winter's hibernation. It was amazing how Mich affected him in ways that no other woman did. He couldn't take his eyes away from her.
    "Is it a woody?" Mich suddenly asked.
    Startled out of his trance, he felt his face flush, as if his mother had just caught him looking at a Playboy. "Pardon me?"
    "The rental we're looking for. It has those simulated wood panels on the sides?"
    "Oh! Uh — yes, it does."
    "I've got it."
    Kerp leaned down and peered at her monitor, scrutinizing the little image. "Are you sure this is the make and model we're looking for? I can't tell one minivan from another."
    "It's hard with an image this small, but this is definitely the van we're looking for. First, there aren't many minivans that have that wood grain side paneling, plus this van is the only vehicle that was parked there from the evening of the tenth until the afternoon of the eleventh."
    "Ahh! So is this photo the first one taken after the van was parked?"
    "Right," Mich confirmed. "Taken just before 7:00 PM."
    "Can you see al-Madini anywhere?"
    "Maybe that man stepping onto the curb there, I don't know. Let me import this image into Photoshop and take a look at it." With a few deft clicks of the mouse, her computer launched the image editing software and then opened the traffic cam photo.
    After Michelle zoomed in on the figure that appeared to be walking away from the minivan, Kerp commented, "It's so grainy now. It's hard to tell if it's him. Can you clean it up any?"
    "Not really. That only works on TV and in the movies. In real life, the closer you zoom in, the blurrier it is. No way around it. We could take it to the FBI's image enhancement lab to have it processed. They can run some algorithms on it and give us a little clearer image in a day or two, but it won't be significantly better than this. It's too small."
    "Yeah. Anyway, even if we knew for certain that this was al-Madini, it wouldn't tell us anything more than we know now."
    Mich studied the photo glumly. "Not really."
    "Then let's not have it enhanced. I would like a hard copy for the file."
    Michelle sighed and slumped back in her chair, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her face. "I was hoping we'd find something more telling in that photo."
    "Well, like you said, this isn't TV or the movies. You did pinpoint his time of arrival here in DC. That's more than we knew."
    "Yeah," she muttered. "But it's just another dead end. It doesn't tell us where he's going next, or anything."
    Kerp shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Mich. He's probably only going to get something to eat. He's been driving all day and it's supper time."
    Her expression brightened. "You're right! And I'll bet he ate at the same place we had lunch!"
    He paused and considered the thought. "It's entirely possible."
    "There's nowhere else to eat around there within walking distance."
    "Okay, let's follow him through this. After he arrived and parked the van, he probably called someone to pick him up. He wouldn't have told anyone to meet him at a specific time, because on a long trip like that, it's too hard to guess when you'll arrive."
    "Right," Michelle agreed. "And he's not going to wait near the van because he doesn't want to be noticed."
    "No better place to wait unobserved than in a busy restaurant. Especially at suppertime. It all fits. We need to go back to that place and ask some more questions. What was the name?"
    Michelle thought. "I can't remember. In fact, I don't think I've ever paid attention to it."

It was called the Victory Caf�, and little about the establishment had changed since it first opened its doors in 1945. A tight budget had preserved it from the frenzy of renovation that typified the post-war decades and swept away so much living history in the name of modernization.
    Mich and Kerp arrived there from work at about 6:00 PM, just before the supper crowd started gathering, and sat together at the counter on padded chrome-trimmed stools. A man behind the counter greeted them with laminated menus.
    Before Kerp could flash his badge and start asking questions, Michelle inquired of the man, "Do you offer your Fettuccini Alfredo in the evening, like you do at lunch?"
    "Sure do."
    "Great! I almost ordered that at noon, but I decided to have the Chef's Salad instead."
    "Oh," said Kerp. "We're eating?"
    "We're not?" Mich asked.
    "Uh, sure! That's fine with me. I just wasn't thinking in those terms."
    "Did you have plans?"
    "No. Well, sort of, but Mulligan stew will always keep. That's the great thing about it."
    "Oh. I'm sorry. I just thought..."
    "No! Seriously, I'd much rather have dinner here with you!"
    "But you made stew!"
    "Yeah, last week. It's no big deal."
    "Last week? What is Mulligan stew?" she asked.
    "It's actually a hobo dish. When a group of hobos gathers together for supper, one might have a can of beans, another could have two or three taters, somebody else has a can of soup — and they throw it all into a common pot. Whatever it turns out to be is called Mulligan stew. It's different every time."
    "So hobos stop by your place for supper?"
    He smiled. "Not usually. I just put together whatever leftovers and canned stuff I have on hand, and save whatever's left in the pot after I'm done. The next day I add something else to the mix and have it again. The flavor keeps evolving as long as you keep the stew going."
    "Hmm. Mulligan stew: interesting. I'd like to try it sometime."
    "I'll bring you a container of it."
    "I don't want a container of it; I want you to invite me over for supper sometime." Kerp hadn't expected anything like that from her, and was unable to form an immediate response. "You've been to my place plenty of times," she continued, "but I've never even seen where you live!"
    The man behind the counter had been observing the exchange, and decided it was time to participate. "So invite her to dinner, son! What's the matter with you? Are ya blind or somethin'?" Turning to address Michelle, he asked, "Does he need to be hit over the head?"
    She smiled and nodded. "Occasionally."
    "Um, uh, well, sure," Kerp stammered. "I'd love to have you over sometime."
    The man pressed on, asking, "When?"
    "When? Umm..." Kerp looked at Mich pleadingly, as if to protest this stranger upsetting the equilibrium of their relationship. She offered him no sympathy, however, but merely raised her eyebrows in anticipation of an answer. "Saturday," he blurted out. "How about Saturday evening?"
    "Mister Kerpalscheiker! How sweet of you to invite me! I accept. What time should I be there?"
    "Uh, six, I guess. How about six o'clock?"
    "I'll be there. Formal or casual?" She had him skewered and was having fun slowly rotating him over the fire.
    He gave her an amused look and said, "Oh, let's make it casual. I get so tired of hanging around the apartment in my tux."
    The man gave a nod of approval. "You two were in here for lunch today, weren't you? Or was it yesterday?"
    "Today," Kerp confirmed.
    "I don't believe I've seen you here before today." Looking at Michelle, he added matter-of-factly, "I know I'd remember seeing you before."
    Michelle smiled and remained silent.
    "We're federal agents," Kerp said, showing the man his ID. "We were in the neighborhood around noon working on a case..."
    "Anything to do with those terrorists?"
    "As a matter of fact, yes." Kerp had his full attention now. "We were asking people if they'd seen this man," he explained, producing a black-and-white printout of al-Madini's photo. "We now have reason to believe he may have eaten here at about this time on September tenth, the day prior to the tragedy. Do you recognize him?"
    He shook his head. "Nope. Afraid not. You need to ask the staff. They'd remember a face better'n me. Wait. Let me go look at the schedule and see who was working that night."
    He returned in a few minutes and pointed to an empty booth. "Why don't you folks have a seat at that table over there, and Arlene will be with you in just a second. She was on duty that night, and she might be able to help you. Good head on her shoulders." They thanked him as they stood up. "Dinner's on the house for you two tonight, by the way," he added.
    "Sir, that's really not necessary," Michelle pleaded.
    "Maybe not, but that's the way it's gonna be."
    "Well — thank you so much!"
    He pointed at her and Kerp and said, "You just get those bastards for me, okay? Just..." he stopped, suddenly choked by emotion. Unable to continue, he finished his request by shaking his pointing finger and nodding solemnly.
    They seated themselves at the booth and the waitress approached them momentarily.
    "Hi, I'm Arlene. Mike said you guys are cops and you want to ask me something?"
    "Federal agents, ma'am," Kerp said. "We understand you were here working on the evening of September tenth: the day before the terrorist attack?"
    "That's right. Worked till closing. I remember I had the next day off. I was gonna get some stuff done around the house, but I ended up spending the whole day in front of the TV after it happened."
    "Do you recall seeing this man come in here that night? Say, about seven o'clock?"
    She took the printout and scrutinized al-Madini's face. "Wow. Know what? I do remember him. You think he's scary lookin' in this picture, you should see him in person! He's enough to give the devil nightmares."
    "You waited on him?"
    "He wasn't at one of my tables, but I passed him every time I went to or from the kitchen."
    "Was he with anybody?" Mich asked, jotting notes.
    "Not..." Arlene hesitated, having just noticed the profound magnitude of Michelle's bust. "Uh — not at first, ma'am, but later another guy came in and sat with him. That one only ordered coffee. He stayed about ten minutes and then they both left."
    "Did you notice anything unusual?"
    "Unusual? No, not really. They looked foreign, but that's not out of the ordinary these days. We get people from all over the world in here."
    "Did either of the men carry anything in or out with them?"
    Arlene thought a moment. "Yeah, a shopping bag. It's funny — I did notice that the other guy brought it in, but that man in the picture there carried it out with him when they left."
    "Do you recall what store name was on the shopping bag?"
    "Some kind of sports place."
    "Would you say that this bag had new merchandise in it, or did it look more like it was being recycled for another use?"
    "Well, it looked pretty new when the other guy brought it in, but when the first one got hold of it, he rolled it up real tight and held it close to him, like he thought somebody might steal it."
    "Is there anything else you can recall that might be significant?"
    Arlene paused and looked to the right slightly as she mentally reviewed the occasion. "No, not right now."
    Michelle pushed her business card across the table. "Would you call us if you remember anything else?"
    "Sure."
    "Who was waiting on this man's table that night?" Kerp asked.
    "Maria Alvarez. But she's not working tonight."
     Kerp watched Mich as she caught up on her notes. "That's all the questions I have. You got anything else?"
    "Not right now."
    "So are you ready to order?"
    "Sure am. I'd like the Fettuccini Alfredo, a small salad, and coffee. Kerp, while you're ordering, I'm gonna ask the boss man for Maria Alvarez's address."
    She slipped out of the booth, and Arlene and Kerp watched her incredible bosom shake and wobble from behind as she went off to see Mike.
    The waitress turned to Kerp and asked, "Is she for real?"
    Without taking his eyes away, he answered, "Through and through."

They had driven to the restaurant in separate cars so they could each go straight home when they were done, and as they walked together to where Mich was parked, Kerp asked, "So you really want to come over and try my Mulligan stew Saturday night?"
    "Of course! I'm looking forward to it."
    "Yeah, that'll be nice. I don't entertain much, so don't come with high expectations."
    "Kerp, don't get your jockeys in a knot. It's just me."
    Just her, Kerp mocked silently. That's all. "I've never had anyone over for supper before. I don't even have a dining table."
    "No table? Where do you set your food when you eat?"
    "I put it on the coffee table and sit on the couch."
    "Watching TV."
    "'Fraid so."
    "No problem. I'll rent a movie on the way."
    "Uh-oh: chick flick."
    She elbowed him playfully. "Maybe I'll surprise you." After quietly strolling a little farther, she asked, "You've never had anyone over to your place to eat before?"
    "No. Unless you count Bridgett."
    "Bridgett? Who's that?" she asked, trying to keep her claws sheathed.
    "My neighbor's ugly little dog. She comes to see me wanting the doggie treats that I keep for her. She's real sweet, and smarter than a lot of people. She's sort of adopted me. It's almost as if she knows that, as often as I'm out of town, I can't have a pet of my own, so she stops by to keep me company and eat my treats."
    Michelle smiled. "That's really sweet. So tell me," she asked with a twinkle in her eye, "why is it that you have this dog over all the time, but you've never invited me?"
    "Because the dog never asks me questions like that." He knew she was mainly being playful, but he also sensed an underlying need for a more serious answer. "Mich, it's complicated. I've never been able to figure out how to ask you over without sounding like — like I'm just trying to jump your bones or something. It's just too politically charged. In our profession, we need to be able to trust each other totally in matters of life and death."
    "I know," she conceded. "But there should be a point at which you finally figure out that I do trust you completely, and nothing will ever change that."
    "Oh." That had never occurred to him, even though deep in his heart he knew it was true. "Okay. Well, good."
    Michelle stopped walking and began fumbling around in her purse. Kerp turned to look at her and then realized she was standing beside her car. "Here we are," she confirmed. "Where'd you park?"
    "Back on Connecticut."
    "Oh! I didn't realize you were making a special trip to walk me here. That's sweet! Want me to give you a lift to your car?"
    "Sure, I'd appreciate it." Kerp's reason for walking with Michelle did not arise out of any need to protect the black belt beauty: she could handle herself against any attacker. He just wanted to be with her a bit longer.
    She took him the few blocks to his own vehicle and pulled into a spot behind it. They looked at each other as the car idled, neither one wanting to say good night. They could have stared into each other's eyes all night, but they were hesitant to admit that they wanted to.
    "So." Kerp announced.
    Mich nodded her agreement. After a few silent seconds drifted past, she asked, "Shall we plan on interviewing Maria Alvarez tomorrow?"
    "Who?"
    "The waitress."
    "Right. Yes, that'd be good. Well, I'll see you in the morning, then."
    "Okay," she said with a smile so sweet it almost made it impossible for him to leave. "Drive carefully."
    "You too."
    What was missing was the goodnight kiss.

The next afternoon they drove to the address given them for Maria Alvarez. It was in a neighborhood where, although the incomes were low, the people were working hard to make a good life for themselves and their families. The agents had been told that Maria was scheduled to work the breakfast and lunch shift that day, so they knocked on her door a little after 3:30 PM.
    The door opened and they were greeted by a lovely young woman with beautiful dark eyes. At first she thought they were from INS, because when people in suits came flashing badges in her neighborhood, that was usually the case. After frantically assuring them that she was in the country legally, Mich calmed her down by explaining in Spanish that they only wanted to ask her some questions about a man she had waited on at the diner.
    The women talked at length as Kerp looked on cluelessly. After a while, Maria appeared to have brought up the subject of Mich's extraordinary bust. She repeatedly glanced at it with exuberant wonder as the two conversed, now and then casting an embarrassed look toward Kerp. Eventually things drew to a close, and Michelle thanked the se�orita before they left.
    On the drive back to their office, Kerp asked, "So what did Miss Alvarez say about al-Madini?"
    "She just confirmed what the other waitress told us last night. Al-Madini came in and ate, a second man joined him carrying a bag, then in a few minutes they both left, and al-Madini had the bag."
    "That's all she said?"
    "She did say they didn't leave a tip."
    "It took her ten minutes to tell you that?"
    "Kerp, I've told you before, Spanish is a very beautiful and poetic language, and it requires more time to express an idea because it's so ornate."
    "Uh-huh. Looked to me like she was asking you something about your boobs."
    "Did it?"
    "Come on; what'd she say?"
    "Kerpalscheiker, you've got boobs on the brain."
    "Yes, I do. Now, what'd she say?"
    "Just girl talk," Mich answered with a sly grin, peeking at him out of the corner of her eye. Kerp responded with a grunt. She wouldn't have minded telling him what had been discussed regarding her oversize mammaries, but teasing him was too much fun. Besides, he'd withheld similar information from her before, under the protection of 'boy talk'. It was only fair.
    The Friday afternoon traffic was already becoming heavy as they made their way through it, and by the time they got back to their desks, the afternoon was almost gone. They worked until most of the staff had gone home, and eventually they too made preparations to leave.
    "Kerp," Mich said as she shut down her computer, "I need a map to get to your place tomorrow night. Are we still on?"
    "Yeah, definitely! Six o'clock. I've been looking forward to it."
    "Me too." They'd both been trying to hide their anticipation all day.
    He drew a rudimentary map for her, explaining a few particulars, and then they walked together to the parking lot and bade each other goodnight.

She arrived at his apartment early, wearing jeans, a hot pink tee shirt and an old jacket. The jacket was a standard off-the-shelf product, hopelessly unbuttonable over the enormous bust that jutted out so extravagantly between its lapels. As usual, she wasn't wearing a bra, a fact confirmed by her big protruding nipples and the heavy bouncing of her immense tits when she moved. The tee-shirt hugged her outrageously curvy torso like a second skin, fully displaying the contours of her huge breasts: such a good fit on her unusual body meant it had to be a bureau-made item.
    The FBGB provided whatever special clothing its super-busty operatives needed. For agents who were undergoing the bureau's breast enlargement program, this included tops that were expandable. In addition to bras, blouses, jackets, and other assorted items for the extravagantly endowed, there was a full line of custom tee shirts made by a computer-controlled machine that could weave an enlarged bodice to accommodate the wearer's oversize breasts. The bureau could also custom silk-screen a logo from an alma mater or anything else that might be desired.
    There was a message emblazoned across the front of Mich's shirt. Her massive breasts thrust the words out into Kerp's face as if they were screaming for him to read them. In bold black letters, the phrase, "PC THESE!" bounced gravidly before her.
    "Good evening, my dear," she sang as she strolled through the door, squeezing his arm affectionately on the way. "Are you reading my tee shirt or scoping out my tits?"
    "Evenin'. Little of both I guess. Oh!" he said, and then laughed. "I get it now. That's good! I was thinking 'Personal Computer' at first. Did you make that up?"
    "Yeah. I was in an 'in-your-face' kind of mood that day. Why is it that if a woman's mammary glands develop over a certain size, that people act like it's a breach of good taste?"
    "Some folks simply don't appreciate the finer things in life, Mich. Come on in and make yourself at home. Listen, I'm almost ready. Just let me, uh... I need to, um — I'll be out in a minute," he explained, pointing to the bathroom door.
    "Take your time. Mind if I give myself the grand tour in the meantime?"
    "Be my guest."
    She wandered through his apartment looking around, investigating heretofore-unrevealed details about her partner's life, such as his taste in music, literature, and junk food. Eventually she found herself standing in his bedroom, gazing at an unmade bed. She studied three framed photographs sitting on his night table next to the alarm clock. One was a fading studio portrait of a couple whom she assumed were his parents; another was of Kerp standing by himself, wearing a graduation cap and gown; and the third was a Polaroid snapshot of a woman. Wondering who it might be — mother, cousin, or some past heartthrob — she strolled over to his bed and leaned over to get a better look. She was surprised when she saw who it was. It was Mich herself: an employee photograph taken just after she'd joined the FBGB. It was supposed to have been in her personnel file.
    She cringed as she looked at it. It was anything but glamorous: just a straight-on shot from the shoulders up. Her boobs weren't even in the picture. That disappointed her for some reason. At least I was smiling. Sort of, she added, picking up the photo. Odd of him to keep this here. Odd that he should have it in the first place.
    She heard a thump coming from the bathroom, and replaced the photo in a guilty hurry, mistakenly thinking he was about to come out. Then she felt silly for having been so childish.
    She sat on the edge of his bed and slid one hand across the sheets as if it could tell her something intimate about him. His bed was against a wall, right by a window. A nice location. She herself enjoyed lying in bed and looking out a window at the world. She imagined him doing that, and peeked out through the blinds to see what his view looked like. It was a back alley lined with garbage cans and punctuated with litter. Small children of various colors ran this way and that across the scene.
    The bathroom door opened and Kerp came out, seeing Michelle waiting for him on his bed. Now, there was a Kodak moment.
    "How long have you lived here?" she asked him.
    "Seven — almost eight years," he replied.
    "Can I ask you a personal question?"
    "Shoot."
    She stood and scanned across his apartment, wondering how she should word it.
    "Let me guess." Kerp said. "How come I live in such a dump?"
    "No! This is not a dump! It's very cute, and you keep it well. Generally speaking," she added, casting an eye at his disheveled bed."
    "Mich, you know I'm just teasing you."
    "I guess I'm wondering why you couldn't afford a place in a little nicer part of town. Listen to me, I sound like such a snob."
    "No, I know what you mean. You gotta keep in mind the bureau doesn't pay me like they pay their female operatives."
    "Why not?"
    He whispered with a cupped hand, "It's probably because I'm so flat chested!"
    She laughed at him. "You mean the FBGB reverse discriminates? They pay women better than men?"
    "Not all of them. The women in the office aren't paid that much. The large salaries go to the large bosoms. For someone like me, they figure that working with big-breasted babes is reward enough, and they really shouldn't have to pay me at all. They're probably right."
    "No, they're not. I wouldn't want anyone else watching my back." Or my front, she added silently.
    "Thanks, Mich. Anyway, I like living here," he continued. "The neighborhood is kind of poor but the people are really nice. We stick together. My neighbors like the idea of having a law enforcement officer around. We got together and moved the drug dealers out of this area about three years ago, and they haven't come back."
    "Yeah! I remember reading about that. Whadya know," she mused, almost to herself. "That was you."
    "Not me. All of us," he corrected.
    "Mm-hm."
    "Are you hungry?"
    "Yes, I am. I can't wait to taste your Mulligan stew."
    She followed him to his little galley kitchen, where, in anticipation of her visit, he had neatly laid out on the counter everything they needed: bowls, silverware, napkins, and drinking glasses with pictures of the Flintstones. In the tiny space, Michelle's tremendous breasts looked even more enormous, looming out so far that he feared she might hurt herself by crashing them into something.
    "So what movie did you bring?" he asked her.
    "Naked Cheerleaders' Bloodbath."
    "You're kidding."
    "Part Six."
    "Young lady, that's disgusting! I sincerely hope you didn't actually rent that trash! You shoulda got Part Seven. It has way more blood and naked tits. Seriously: what'd you get?"
    "Out of Africa."
    "Okay, just shoot me."
    "No," she said grinning. "All kidding aside, I rented two: The Jackal, and Some Like It Hot. We can watch either one or both," she said, silently adding, or neither, if you just want to fool around.
    "Ah, excellent choices. Now, before we have our entr�e of le Stew de Mullig�n, we will have an appetizer of reconstituted potato chips from a cardboard can," Kerp said, offering her some. "And I also took the liberty of selecting for Madame a nice bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon."
    "Ooo, now you're talkin'," she said, accepting the glass he had just poured her. She lifted it up to toast, and said, "Here's to Mike!"
    Kerp raised his glass and asked, "Who's Mike?"
    "Mike is the guy at the diner who forced you to invite me here tonight."
    He smiled and touched his glass to hers. "To Mike." After taking a sip, he asked, "Some Like it Hot is with Marilyn Monroe, right?"
    "Mm-hm, and Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon."
    "I've never seen that, but I've always heard it was good."
    "Hilarious. Sexy too, especially for its day."
    "Marilyn was hot."
    "She was," Mich agreed. "You know, I've seen some photos of her where her boobs look to be about average or even smallish, but in other pictures she looks absolutely huge."
    When Mich uttered the words 'absolutely huge,' Kerp's eyes gravitated to her immense, swaying bosom that hovered between them in the kitchen's narrow walkway. She watched him gaze at her enormous breasts, wishing his hands were as bold as his eyes.
    After they'd been working on their wine for a while, Kerp decided it was time to serve the stew. He took a coffee cup and ladled some into the bowls he'd set out. "I didn't know if you like hot sauce or not, but if you want some, here it is," he said, holding up the little red bottle.
    "I think I'll just have the stew as is." She then watched him shake a good amount into his own bowl. "Wow," she commented. "How can you stand it that hot?"
    "To me, some foods are best when they're so hot that tears run down my cheeks and flames shoot out my nostrils."
    "I guess some do like it hot."
    "Oh, hardy har har, it is to laugh," he rebuked her with a grin.
    They took their meals to the coffee table and sat beside each other on the couch. Kerp picked up the remote and turned his TV on.
    Opening up a video case, he said, "I'd like to watch Marilyn first, unless you have any objections.
    "Fire away."
    He inserted it into the VCR and sat back down. The television suddenly became silent, displaying a blank screen until he pushed the fast forward button and advertisements began streaking by. When he saw the title announcing the Feature Presentation, he returned it to normal speed.
    "They don't put as many commercials on these older movies."
    Michelle had just taken her spoon out of her mouth and was making a good face. "I like this, Kerp! So this is Mulligan stew."
    "Yeah, but remember it never tastes the same twice. It belongs to the schizophrenic food group."
    "Well, this is delicious. Thanks for inviting me. You're a good cook," she said, mentally adding, and I bet that's not all you're good at, cutie.
    The movie began telling its story as they ate. By the time Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis had gotten off the train with the all-girl band, Michelle and Kerp had finished their Mulligan stew and were easing back in their places on the couch. Interwoven with the unfolding of the plot were thoughts about how near they were sitting to each other and how nice it would be to scoot even closer and cuddle. Yes, it would indeed have been nice, but it would not, however, have been easy. Their intimate friendship and close working relationship were so intensely necessary to each one's existence, that crossing the threshold into the realm of romance presented a frightening risk. Rejection would be too difficult to overcome, both in terms of the emotional pain and the difficulty of continuing their intricate alliance. Its specter arose every time one of them was nearing the point of saying to hell with it, and grabbing the other in a fit of passion.
    Eventually they paused the movie and had a much-needed bathroom break. While Mich was thus occupied, Kerp cleaned up the empty bowls and silverware, and then started a bag of microwave popcorn, which she was delighted to smell when she came out.
    They both took care to sit closer to one another when they returned to the couch. They restarted the movie and enjoyed the popcorn and their proximity. For a long time, Kerp considered putting his arm around her, until he finally felt so ridiculously juvenile that he almost laughed out loud at himself. He dropped the idea.
    The popcorn bag was in his lap because Mich's lap was already full of giant breasts. Whenever she reached into the bag for a handful, they both had naughty little fleeting fantasies about what she might otherwise have been doing with her hand down there.
    From Kerp's point of view directly beside Michelle, her tits looked impossibly enormous. They were so big he couldn't see her knees! During a few of the sexier scenes showing Marilyn in states of undress or in situations with men, Mich's big nipples distended radically, creating a riveting distraction for Kerp.
    The movie ended, and after another snack raid, the second began. Through no fault of the film, but rather due to the wine and the hour, Michelle eventually drifted off to sleep. Her head fell against his shoulder, and for a moment Kerp thought his ship had come in. When he realized she was sleeping, he leaned his head against hers and breathed the scent of her hair. He soon joined her in slumber.
    He woke up at about 3:00 AM. The movie had run to the end of the tape, and the VCR had automatically rewound and ejected it, leaving an infomercial playing on the television. He stood up, shut off the VCR and TV, and turned around to look at Michelle's dormant form. She was sleeping so soundly, he decided the best thing was to let her spend the rest of the night on the couch. After fetching a blanket from his bedroom, he gently took her in his arms and eased her down into a horizontal position. Lying on her back, her enormous unbrassiered boobs shifted beneath her tee shirt, and one of them attempted to roll off her chest toward him. Instinctively, he reached and stopped it with his hand. Then, shocked at the liberty he'd inadvertently taken, he let go of the massive gland, letting it loll heavily to her side.
    After slipping her shoes off, he opened up the blanket and covered her with it. Her gigantic breasts thrust up beneath it like a mountain range, and he stood there looking at them for a moment, amazed by their size and beauty.

In the morning, Michelle awoke to daylight beaming through the window, and it took her a moment to orient herself to the strange surroundings. She was at Kerp's place, and he must have put her to bed on the couch! She threw the cover back and got up, organizing her thoughts and immediate priorities.
    She strolled to his bedroom door and pushed it open just enough to step through and close it again. In the darkened room, she stared at his motionless form lying in the bed. Slowly grasping the bottom hem of her tee shirt, she pulled it off over her head and giant breasts, and then unzipped her jeans and let them fall. After stepping out of those and her panties, she stood there naked in the dark, contemplating him in silent fascination. The covers revealed his bare back, and as she wondered if he slept in the nude, her hands moved to her enormous tits, absently caressing their opulent flesh for a moment.
    She walked to his bed and sat down beside him on the mattress. As her huge boobs dangled gravidly over him, she watched him slowly breathing in and out, peaceful and oblivious. She ran her fingers through his hair, down the small of his back, and grasped the edge of the blanket that covered him. The prospect of pulling it back and getting in next to him felt wholly inviting and reasonable, but she could not find the wherewithal to follow through. She stood up, and after one last longing look, turned and walked to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
    The click of the latch caused Kerp to stir, and he propped himself up on one elbow to look around. He saw the light coming from behind the bathroom door and heard the sound of the shower being turned on, and remembered that Mich had slept over. He got up and started to pull on some jeans when their very strange fit made him realize they weren't his! In his groggy state, he wondered about it only briefly, then simply backed out of those jeans and found his own.
    Coffee was in order, and he knew Michelle would like some too, so he went about making the preparations. Once the coffeemaker was singing its morning song, Kerp turned the oven on and opened his freezer, pulling out a bag containing disks of frozen biscuit dough.
    In a dozen minutes, the coffee was made, the biscuits were done, and sausage patties were sizzling in the pan. As he stood tending them, Michelle appeared, wearing only a shirt she'd found in his bathroom and a towel on her head, saying, "Good morning! I hope I didn't wake you." She walked up to him and kissed him on the cheek as she dried her hair.
    His shirt had never looked so good. Her tremendous breasts filled it to overflowing, stressing the buttons and creating gaps between the buttonholes. He would now prize that shirt forever. He decided that if those glorious nipple impressions remained in it, he'd even have it bronzed. "Good morning! No, you didn't wake me. Did you sleep alright on the couch?"
    She chuckled sheepishly. "Yeah — I'm sorry I conked out on you last night."
    He grinned. "That's okay. I wasn't far behind you. I woke up about three and tucked you in."
    "Thank you, daddy," she said. "You're making some fantastic smells, there."
    "Thanks. I hope you like sausage biscuits."
    "Mmm! You're too good to me."
    "Are you ready to eat?" he asked, basing the question more on the state of the food than Michelle's state of dress.
    "Let me get my clothes on and I'll be right with you," she said, disappearing into his bedroom. "Can I borrow this shirt I've got on, hon?" she called from around the corner. "I really don't want to wear the one I slept in."
    "Help yourself."
    In a moment Mich was back, wearing her jeans with his shirt tucked into them. She and Kerp stood in his miniscule kitchen eating sausage biscuits and drinking coffee as the lovely morning light washed the room in its golden brightness.
    From a clock radio mounted under a cabinet, a news station was proclaiming the top world stories. Almost all of the reports dealt in some way with the ongoing war against terrorism, casting a dark shadow over what would otherwise have been an idyllic moment. As they commented on various news stories, their thoughts turned to business. Their professional obligation to change those situations for the better weighed on their minds, as did the high cost of failure. It became a working breakfast as they put aside personal feelings and brainstormed with each other on how best to proceed with their investigation.

It had been several weeks since the attacks on New York and Washington. Through the Justice Department's Terrorist Hotline, tips had come in regarding a private residence in Washington DC that was believed to be an al-Qaeda operations center or safe house. After the suspicious deaths of two federal officers who had been watching the residence, a plan was formed to conduct surveillance in short shifts, like tag-teams, in the interest of greater security. Michelle and Kerp were temporarily assigned to this operation in spite of the fact that Mich's figure was anything but inconspicuous.
    On the afternoon before the new stakeout plan was to commence, Kerp insisted they pay a visit to a friend of his who lived on the outskirts of Washington.
    They went in Michelle's car. It wasn't always easy to squeeze such enormous breasts behind the wheel of an automobile, but she handled it with her usual grace. Buckling her seat belt, she played out a considerable amount of its length before she was able to latch it across her swollen chest. "If my boobs get much bigger I'm gonna have to hire a chauffeur," she commented off-handedly as she started the engine.
    Kerp watched her make preparations to drive: moving the seat back a notch to give her expanding bust a bit more room, adjusting the rearview mirror, checking her makeup. His favorite part of the routine was when she released the parking brake. In order to reach the little lever below the dash, she had to lean forward with her corpulent bosom pressed against the steering wheel, bulging out lavishly to the side. She sometimes honked the horn in the process.
    The brake released with a clunk, and Michelle straightened up. After checking traffic, she glanced over at Kerp with a sweet smile that made his little heart go all a-flutter, and then she pulled out of the parking space.
    He had the feeling that she always knew when he watched her, but she never seemed to mind. A thought kept trying to occur to him that she wanted to afford him such pleasure, but he couldn't accept the notion. He refused to make assumptions about Michelle's feelings that might lead him to inadvertently offend her.
    It was a tightrope he had to walk every day. He didn't know if he was in love, or obsessed, or a combination of the two — or if there was any difference. He'd let all the subscriptions to his big-tit magazines expire since knowing Mich. He had found himself merely glancing through them after they arrived, but beyond that they stayed on the shelf. It wasn't that he found the models unattractive; neither had his fascination with unusually large breasts waned. The simple fact was that he considered his partner to be the loveliest woman he'd ever met, and though he had actually seen a few bigger sets of tits in his life, he had never seen prettier breasts of any size. And their size was always increasing. Her boobs were wonderfully large when he'd met her, and they just kept getting bigger and bigger, becoming even more beautiful in the process.
    His familiarity with Michelle's breasts was not merely the result of undressing her mentally — he'd actually seen her topless on more than one occasion. The first time was just after they'd met. She had briefly flashed her tits at him to demonstrate that even though her breasts were so large, she didn't need the support of a brassiere. He thought about that moment a lot. The second time was accidental. In a motel room in Richmond, Virginia, working their first case, Mich came waltzing into the bathroom totally naked and ready for a shower, not knowing that Kerp was in there, having just stepped out of the stall himself. (He'd asked earlier if he could use her shower because the tub in his room was full of bugs, but that had slipped her mind.)
    The most recent time was when Michelle went undercover as an exotic dancer. As for that assignment, the term 'undercover' was less than accurate, as there wasn't much of Mich that remained covered. She could have easily made a fortune doing that gig professionally. Kerp couldn't pull his eyes away from her and had difficulty concentrating as he tried to look for their suspect among the crowd. As Michelle danced in nothing but her sequined G-string, she noticed Kerp watching her. For all he knew, his mouth might have been hanging open with drool running down his chin, but she smiled and winked at him. Later she had playfully teased him about not keeping his mind on business. But everyone in the room had been watching her with rapt attention, even the women. Her boobs were the biggest anyone in the place had ever seen, and she'd slung them around with amazing control and riveting sexiness.
    Mich did love to dance: anywhere, any time. She was good at it. She would even dance while sitting in a car if a good song came on the radio. This was always a very arousing thing for Kerp to behold, especially since she rarely wore a bra. He couldn't help but watch her lovely gyrating form, bouncing those enormous unrestrained breasts about.
    Try as he might to maintain a detached perspective at work every day, his eyes were constantly drinking in the sight of her. Then at home during off-hours, his mind was so full of images of Michelle's stunning beauty and incredible body, all he had to do was close his eyes and there she was in all her busty glory. Whenever the pressure became so great that he sought relief with his 'one-handed mistress', there was no need for erotic magazines or videos. And when he went to sleep at night, Michelle was there inside his head, wearing some low-cut dress, or a form-fitting sweater stretched tight across her incredible bust, or possibly completely naked with her huge breasts bouncing and swinging freely like two giant...
    "How long do you think it'll take to get hold of them?" Mich asked.
    Startled from his reverie, Kerp straightened up in his seat. "Excuse me?" It wouldn't have surprised him to learn she could read his mind.
    "Al-Qaeda. What kind of time frame do you think we're looking at here, to put these people out of business?"
     "Uh, it's hard to say. We may get a break, or it could go on for a long time. Whatever it takes." He watched her turn the car around a corner, pushing one forearm against her bosom as she spun the wheel.
    "Right. So who is this friend of yours we're going to see?"
    "Moe? He's a techno-wizard."
    "Ah. A computer geek."
    "That and more. He's going to let me borrow one of his toys."
    "Ooo! Another spy toy?"
    "Yep."
    "What's this one?"
    "It's a combination of a really small video camera hidden in a hat, and a heads-up monitor displayed in the lens of a pair of sunglasses. It lets you look in any direction without turning your head, and it can also store up to sixteen captures at 640 by 480. It has a little hand-held controller that lets you rotate the camera, zoom, and take stills."
    "Cool. Does this guy Moe create spy toys for a living?"
    "No, he authors game software, does consulting, teaches some."
    "So why did he make this camera thing?"
    "For his own amusement."
    "Alright, and how does he amuse himself with it?" Mich pursued.
    Kerp smiled, bowed his head, and scratched his nose. "Well. Moe likes to go to shopping malls, airports, amusement parks — public places — and he wears the cap and, uh, takes pictures."
    Michelle glanced at him quizzically. "Why doesn't he just use a regular camera?"
    Kerp grinned at her and said, "Because then the lovely ladies he's photographing would see what he's doing, and either clobber him or have him arrested."
    "Ah, I see. Well since it's not illegal, they'd have to settle for clobbering him. He's not one of those guys who takes pictures up girls' dresses, is he?"
    "Oh, no! Just down their blouses."
    "What?!"
    Kerp laughed. "Not really. Well, once in a while. But it's not like he lies in wait for women, perched overhead on something. However, if an opportunity presented itself, he'd take it."
    "He should be ashamed!"
    "He is."
    "How do you know he doesn't lie in wait for these girls? You don't go with him, do you? Shame on you!"
    "No, I don't go with him. I can tell by looking at the pictures. There are very few down-the-blouse shots , and there's nothing in any of them that isn't in public view."
    "Oh, so you do look at his pictures," Michelle chided with a grin.
    "Yeah. Nice collection."
    "So he keeps them in some kind of cheesy photo album or something?"
    "No, he posts them on the web."
    "On the internet? Without their permission?"
    "He conceals their identity."
    Michelle laughed. "With black rectangles across their eyes?"
    He chuckled, saying, "Yep."

Standing in an ancient foyer, Kerp pressed the intercom button for Moe's apartment. In a few seconds, a voice answered, "Yeah?"
    "Kerp."
    "Come on up." The door to the stairway buzzed open and they passed through. After climbing three flights of stairs, they came out into a short hall. There were four apartments on that floor, and one door stood wide open. "In here, Kerp!" the voice called.
    With Kerp leading, they entered the apartment and wound their way through an obstacle course of boxes, furniture, piles of laundry and other varied items, following the sound of Pink Floyd's 'Ummagumma' wafting from the interior. On one wall, Michelle noticed a poster of an elaborate airbrush painting featuring an outstandingly busty comic-book heroine whose tiny form-fitting uniform displayed a vast amount of bulging cleavage. Arching over her head, the word 'WOBBLEKNOCKERS' was emblazoned in big 3-D letters. She found the poster amusing, yet provocative. In a spare bedroom filled almost to the ceiling with electronic equipment of all kinds, a man sat with his back to the door, facing a computer monitor.
    Kerp entered and called out over the music, "Hey, Moe!"
    Moe shot a quick half-glance over his shoulder and answered, "Kerp, my man!" Looking back at the screen, he said, "Check this out! I've been working on this for years, and it's almost perfect."
    Kerp walked up and stood behind the young man as Mich came in and peered over their shoulders. On the screen was a window showing video of a beautiful young actress in a TV sitcom. It was a loop that ran about 20 seconds and then repeated. Moe stopped it and zoomed in on the image of the woman.
    Without looking up from the monitor, he announced, "Doctor Kerpalscheiker, the program you are about to see will one day bring happiness to tit-men all over the world."
    Michelle elbowed Kerp teasingly.
    "Now watch." He stopped the video and zoomed in on the young lady's modest bust. "All I do is establish a few anchor points for each boob by clicking here — here — here, and here, and another one in the middle about where the nipple ought to be. They don't have to be exact; the program will fine-tune them automatically. Then I hit ENTER," which he did, causing a topographical wire-frame network to appear over her bosom, "and now all I have to do is move this slider bar up like this, and watch what happens."
    As Moe pushed the virtual slider bar with his mouse, the wire-frame over her breasts steadily grew, becoming extremely large. When he released the mouse button, the wire-frame flashed and adopted the pixel pattern from the original image of the actress's dress, rendering the young lady with a suddenly huge pair of tits.
    "Whoa!" Kerp exclaimed. "Automatic morphing! Amazing, Moe!"
    "I can adjust the position of her boobs like this — so I can make 'em look like big ol' implants, or like this — to give her a nice natural set of low-boys. And this toggle button here lets you choose between BRASSIERED and BRALESS." As he toggled it back and forth, the image of the woman's bosom switched from high and shaped to unsupported with protruding nipples.
    "Too cool."
    "But that's not all. Get this: once the first frame is compiled, it computes the proper mass for the enlarged tits according to their new size, and then it tracks her motion through the subsequent frames, applying the laws of inertia to simulate mass. All that good bouncy stuff. Now watch." He clicked a PLAY button and the video started again. This time the actress walked through the scene sporting a whopping great pair of breasts that wobbled and jiggled realistically with her movements.
    "Fantastic!" Kerp praised with a pat on Moe's shoulder.
    "You should see a Leave It to Beaver episode I did: I gave June a giant set of, like, eighty-inch melons! And those tight sweaters she wore? Oooo," he moaned with closed eyes. "You should see those things rock and roll with the program set on BRALESS!"
    "And it does all this in real time?
    "That's the only hitch. It probably seemed like real time to you just now, but it did take a few seconds to render it all. Which isn't bad, except for the fact that my machine here is at least twenty times more powerful than your average Windows box."
    "Can it do the same thing with a naked woman?" Michelle asked.
    Startled, Moe jumped and whirled around in his chair. As he stared at her open-mouthed, the various expressions that washed across his face were so comical that both Mich and Kerp had to laugh. He gulped, and in a subdued tone, answered, "Of course it does." Without turning his gaze from Mich, he said, "Kerp — I thought you were alone, dude."
    "Moe," Kerp said, "this is my partner, Michelle Myers: Mich, this is Mohammed al-Jafari."
    She extended her hand to him and said, "Nice to meet you, Moe."
    He shook her hand and answered, "Wow." He was blushing noticeably, even through his dark complexion. He turned down the volume on his stereo and apologized, "I hope I didn't offend you. I thought it was, like, just us guys."
    "No offense taken. Actually, I think that's a pretty cool program you've written there. Especially for someone who's into big boobs."
    Moe looked at his feet and confessed, "Well — I guess you can tell that I am."
    "Yeah. I like 'em too, actually. I guess it's a good thing I do, with a rack like mine."
    "Not many chicks understand about big breasts."
    "True. But I do."
    Kerp smiled at Michelle's gentle and subtle disarming of Moe's insecurities. Her eyes briefly met his as he beamed.
    "So you guys are here to borrow my Capcam, huh?" asked Moe.
    "Is that what you call it?" Kerp inquired.
    "Capcam," he affirmed, nodding. "Let me show you how it works." He stood up and reached for a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap which was lying on a stack of books nearby. "This is the cam here," he said, pointing to the top button of the ball cap. It was somewhat larger than the button on a regular cap, and was made of a black transparent plastic. "It rotates inside here, and the raw image data comes down this little wire." He pointed to one of two thin black cables about five inches long that hung from the back of the cap, each terminating in a small connector.
    "Over here," Moe continued, reaching for a black box that was slightly smaller than a Walkman, "is the brain of the thing. On a fully charged set of NiCad batteries it'll go for about four hours. It processes the image data, relays control commands to the cam, and stores still images. It also talks to the hand controller, which is," he said as he reeled in a wire dangling from the brain, "this right here."
    It was the size of a penlight and had a small joystick protruding from the end opposite to where the wire was attached. "You hold this and keep your hand in your pocket or something. I'll show you how this works in a second. And the final component of the system," he said as he opened a drawer and held up a pair of sunglasses, "Ta-da! This is actually a video monitor, believe it or not."
    "You made that?" Mich asked.
    "No, I just adapted it to this system. It uses the same technology as the heads-up displays on fighter jets. This other cable from the cap gets plugged into the frame of the glasses," he explained, demonstrating, "and we're ready to go. Let me send a feed to my computer, so you can see what I'm seeing." He reached behind his monitor and pulled out the end of another cable, which he plugged into the Capcam's brain. "You upload using this same port, by the way. Okay, let's crank it up and see what we got."
    Moe put on the cap and glasses, and double-checked all the connections. After everything was ready to go, he flipped a switch on the brain and the live video flickered up, the image streaking back and forth crazily across the monitor. Moe stopped moving and the picture steadied into something identifiable. "There are only two controls on the hand-held. This button captures the current frame: just push it and the screen image gets stored in the brain. And then to make the camera pan, you move the joystick side to side like this," he said pushing the joystick to one side, causing the video image to move sideways until Michelle was centered, "and you zoom in and out by pushing the joystick forward and back." The picture on the monitor zoomed in on Michelle's bulbous chest.
    "Say Moe," Mich began, placing her hands on her hips, "That little blinking red light wouldn't be a record indicator, would it?"
    The young man blushed again thoroughly. Kerp commented, "Busted."
     "You're so sneaky, Moe!" she chided, shaking a finger at him but grinning. "If you'd just ask me, I'd be glad to let you take my picture."
    "Are you serious?"
    "Absolutely."
    "So can I take your picture now?"
    "Sure."
    The video picture on his monitor whirled around insanely as Moe scrambled to find his 35mm camera, rooting through a few piles of flotsam before finding it. He checked the settings, made sure it had film, took off the lens cap, and began focusing. Michelle stood sideways to him and placed the palms of her hands on her tummy, holding her shirt close to her torso to more fully display her protuberance. Then (thinking she was being comical) she inhaled deeply and thrust out her chest as far as she could, causing her immense breasts to stick out to a startling extreme. The fabric of the shirt strained as it labored to stretch across her expansive bust.
    The guys gawked open-mouthed and moaned in unison, and Mich couldn't help but smile at their reaction. It made her feel good.
    As Moe snapped pictures of Michelle in various poses, Kerp realized he was beginning to feel jealous, and chastised himself for it. "Whenever you two get through shooting your girlie pictures, can we get back to saving the country?"
    "Dude — you work with this goddess. This is once-in-a-lifetime for me: give me a break," Moe pleaded.
    "Well, at least let me try out the Capcam while you're playing."
    "Oh — sure!" Moe set the camera down momentarily and they all helped transfer the paraphernalia over to Kerp.
    Once it was set up, he began testing it out, standing still as a statue while moving the joystick. "Wow — the little motor is loud when you have the cap on."
    "Yeah, it's sitting right against your skull," Moe explained as he picked up his 35mm again.
    "Take one of Kerp and me," Michelle suggested. She moved over beside him and put her arm around him and he put his around her. They pulled each other close and Moe raised the camera. With one of Mich's giant boobs pushed against his torso, smiling was easy for Kerp.
    After he'd taken a shot, Mich and Kerp stayed as they were for several seconds, neither one willing to be the first to break their close contact. Kerp turned his head and looked at his partner as she did the same. They were nearly nose to nose. "Hey," Kerp said softly. "I never noticed we're about the same height."
    She looked into his face and smiled. "Just about," she replied. "You're a little taller because my heels are a tad higher than yours." He didn't know that she was always careful to wear heels that weren't too high when she was with him.
    As they stood there looking at each other, Moe trashed the moment by suggesting, "Why don't you try capturing a few frames and uploading them to the computer. You'll need to know how to do that."
    The two reluctantly slipped apart and Kerp went back to playing with hardware. As Michelle and Mohammed stood watching him, Moe asked, "Can I ask you a personal question, Mizz Myers?"
    "Mich," she corrected. "Sure. I may choose not to answer it, but go ahead and ask."
    "Okay. Uh..." Moe stammered, fumbling for the right approach. "Well, I was wondering if — if you have, um, implants."
    "Now how did I know this would be a breast related question?" she asked, pretending to pick a piece of lint from her enormous bosom. "The answer to your question, Mister Al-Jafari..."
    "Moe," he corrected.
    "Moe — is that these great big ol' boobies of mine are made out of 100% me. No implants."
    Moe gazed reverently at the vast expanse of bosom undulating just a few feet from his eyes. "Wow. Incredible. Am I being crude here, Kerp?"
    "Ask her," he advised.
    "No, you're not, Moe. I don't mind talking about my boobs. It's kind of neat, actually, talking about 'em with a strange man."
    "'Strange' is right," Kerp teased, training the Capcam on them and zooming out.
    "Now, please don't think that I go around all the time talking to strangers about my tits. You're Kerp's friend, so you're mine, too."
    A thrill ran through Kerp's heart when she said that.
    "So you wouldn't mind if we actually, you know, discussed your boobs?"
    She grinned. "Let's discuss my boobs, Moe. The floor is open."
    "Great! Thank you! Okay." He rubbed his hands together like a miser over his money pot. "First of all, I just gotta say: they are so incredibly big!"
    "Yes, they are," she agreed, looking down at them proudly. "They don't call us the Federal Bureau of Gigantic Bosoms for nothing."
    "So... Now, wait: you mean the Bureau of Big Boobs is for real?!"
    "Kerp never told you?"
    "I thought he was yanking my chain because he knows I'm such a big tit freak!""
    "Gee, and here I thought I was the big tit freak."
    "There's actually more like you — at the office?" Looking at Kerp, he sputtered, "I always assumed you were shitting me because you were really CIA or something." Kerp emphatically shook his head no. Moe then pointed at Michelle and intoned, " So I'm actually talking to one of your mythical Bureau Babes! I had no idea you were serious the whole time. Amazing!" He turned back to Mich and looked at her with a renewed sense of awe. "Wow! Um, may I ask what your bra size is?"
    "I don't really have a regular cup size because, one, I have all my bras custom made, and two, I don't wear any of them. But my bust measurement is 76 inches, if that helps."
    Moe whistled low and respectfully. "Seventy-six!" he said, rolling the number around in his mind. "Did you just say you don't wear a bra?"
    "Hardly ever."
    "Are you wearing one now?" Moe ventured.
    Mich replied with just a smile and a wink.
    He smiled back, accepting her answer. "Okay. But assuming you're not wearing one, how can your boobs be so big and still stand out like that without support?"
    "Good genes. When the bureau ran a biological profile on me during my indoctrination, they found that my elastin levels were the highest they'd ever seen. Most of the women in my family are the same way: typically very busty and extremely firm. My mom is 58 years old and still carries 'em nice and high."
    "Wow," Moe intoned respectfully.
    "Yep. She still looks fabulous without a bra, even after nursing us kids and going from an F- to an H-cup over the years."
    "So, were you, like, an early bloomer, or did it take a long time to grow them that fuckin' big?" he asked, gesturing to Michelle's enormous looming bust. He immediately put a hand over his face and interjected, "That was bad. Shit. Give me a chance to rephrase that. Uh..."
    "Don't worry about it, Moe. Fact is, I did develop early, fast, and big."
    "Yeah? How early, how fast, and how big?"
    "Well, let's put it this way: the last time I slept on my stomach was during the Reagan administration. My breasts had grown to their fully developed adult size before I was eleven. In comparison to my body, they looked totally humongous!"
    Moe's mouth had dropped open. "Your boobs were this size when you were eleven?" he asked incredulously, staring at them.
    "No. My adult bust measurement was 41 inches before I joined the FBGB. If I wore a bra, it was an F-cup," Mich explained.
    "Still — an F-cup on an eleven-year-old? Whoa!"
    "Actually, since the rest of my body wasn't fully grown yet, it was more like a K- or L-cup. I don't know exactly because Mom always altered store-bought bras for me until I grew into my tits."
    "If you grew into those you'd be twenty feet tall!"
    She ignored him and continued, "Sometimes I wonder if the reason I enjoy my breasts getting so huge is because it reminds me of how I felt when I was that age. It was great fun having such big boobs when most of the other girls hadn't even started developing yet."
    "So then, you got to this size after — now, hold on! You said you didn't have implants!?"
    "I don't. My breasts were stimulated to grow this big by science. As I said, all this is pure undiluted human booby."
    "Science? Wow! Too cool! Now, something you said gave me the impression that this enlargement thing is still happening," he said, thinking the idea was ridiculous but at the same time hoping it was true.
    "Yeah," Mich answered with a matter-of-fact nod. "They just keep getting bigger and bigger."
    "I think I need to sit down," Moe said quietly.
    After Kerp had familiarized himself with the Capcam, he announced it was time they should be going. "How long can we keep this thing, Moe?" he asked as they headed toward the front door.
    "As long as you need it, man."
    "Giving up your sneaky trips to the mall?" Mich teased. "Now there's citizen willing to make a sacrifice for his country."
    "Not really," Moe confessed with an embarrassed laugh. "I'm working on a new improved Capcam, so I won't be needing that one."
    "Ah, the truth comes out," she chided.
    "Well, you take care, Moe," Kerp said, offering his hand as they stopped at the door. "Are you getting along okay? Has anyone been giving you a hard time because you're a, uh..."
    "An apostate Muslim? So far nobody's bothered me. I've been wearing a silk bandana thing on my head when I go out, so maybe people will think I'm black."
    Kerp chuckled and commented, "How times change."
    "Thanks for your help, Moe," said Mich. "It was nice to meet you."
    He shook her hand and replied, "It was really nice to meet you."
    Mich exited first, and as Kerp followed her out, Moe caught his eye and nodded toward her, biting at the back of his hand with a pained and yearning expression.
    On the way down the stairs, Michelle said, "You didn't tell me he was Arabic. I was expecting a 'Moe' more like the stooge than the prophet."
    "That's pretty much what you got."

Though it was one of the warmest autumns on record, this was a particularly chilly morning. Kerp disliked the coming of cold weather for a number of reasons. Freezing his ass off was one. Another was the way women wrapped themselves up in bulky clothing, hiding all their lovely curves. A loose sweater can camouflage even a very sizable bosom, which was his favorite kind.
    His ravishing partner was huddled inside just such a sweater: the most loose-fitting one she owned, anyway. Mich's boobs had grown so much bigger over the spring and summer that she found herself ill prepared for the cold weather. Her sweater was stretched thin across her huge tits, and she was unable to close her coat over her them. Winter had crept up on her before she'd had the opportunity to order warm clothing from the bureau to fit her ever-expanding bosom.
    They stood at a bus stop, pretending to wait for a bus, when in fact they were surveilling a nearby private residence that had been identified as a possible al-Qaeda hideout. As Kerp constantly watched the house using the borrowed Capcam he wore, Michelle cast only an occasional furtive glance toward it while trying to warm herself by doing a little dance on her tiptoes. As she hopped about, the laws of inertia did wondrous things with her tremendous unbrassiered breasts: they dipped and jostled heavily in ways that made Kerp want to throw her to the ground and have his way with her right then and there.
    "My tits are freezing!" she hissed through clenched teeth. "My nipples are sticking out a mile!"
    Kerp had noticed.
    A bus pulled around the corner and began to slow as it approached. Kerp waved the driver past as Mich mumbled, "I'm tempted to board that thing just to get warm."
    "What makes you think it'd be warm inside a city bus?"
    "It's got to be warmer in there than it is out here!" She stood shivering, trying to cover her swollen chest by folding her arms, but there was far too much of her for that.
    Kerp was keeping the Capcam trained on the house, watching it carefully. Just then, he thought he might've seen movement in one of the upstairs windows, but it was hard to tell. He pushed the joystick to make the camera zoom in on that window.
    Michelle moved around behind him, mumbling, "Stand still a minute."
    "What are you doing?" he asked without moving.
    "I'm going to use you."
    "Use me?" he asked, not daring to hope how.
    "I'm sorry, but I've got to warm myself up a little." She opened her coat and huddled against Kerp's back, closing her coat against his sides. "I hope you don't mind."
    "Go right ahead. What are friends for?" He felt the fleshy masses of her immense boobs pressing into his back, and although it was a delightful turn of events, he dearly wished she had chosen to employ his other side for warmth.
    "Ohh!" she moaned. "This is good."
    Yes it was. Kerp was pretty sure he could feel where her big nipples were poking into him.
    "Oh-oh," he said. "Don't look. We've got company."
    "What? From the house?"
    "Right."
    "Can you tell who it is?"
    "Not yet. It's refocusing. Okay, it doesn't look like al-Madini. I don't know who he is, but he's headed this way and looking right at us. Got a mean look on his face, too. Maybe we'd better get out of here."
    "If we run and he's with al-Qaeda, then we'll have blown our cover and confirmed to them that we're watching this house," Mich cautioned.
    "Yeah, but what if he's onto us and he's coming over here to kill us?"
    She had no answer. After a few tense moments, she asked, "Is he still coming?"
    "Still coming, still mean. Listen, my shooting hand is working this joystick, and I don't want to alert him by making a move toward my weapon. Can you..."
    "Mine's in my cleavage holster: not exactly convenient with this turtleneck sweater."
    "What do we do, Mich?"
    "Sit tight. It ain't over till it's over. We'll do whatever we have to."
    Another long stretch of endless seconds passed as the man continued to approach. "Whoops," Kerp muttered.
    "What?" Michelle demanded.
    "Batteries just went out on the Capcam."
    "Shit." Saying that didn't seem to help matters, so she tried saying it again, but there was still no improvement. Just then they heard the roar of another DC Transit bus as it rounded the corner. Mich poked him repeatedly and whispered hoarsely, "Let's get on this one!"
    "Right."
    The bus hissed to a stop and belched out a cloud of dark exhaust as its door opened for them. The taciturn driver suddenly perked up and did a double-take at Mich. Kerp turned to her and started to ask if she had any change, but stopped short.
    "Oh. You didn't bring your purse."
    "No, I didn't. Sorry."
    He looked in his wallet but he had nothing smaller than a ten-dollar bill. The bus was still stopped with the doors open and the man from the house was getting closer with each second. Kerp pulled out a ten and stuffed it in the box, saying, "Keep the change."
    The driver looked at him like he was an idiot, then closed the doors and accelerated back into traffic. As much as both of them wanted to look back at the approaching figure, they maintained their discipline and found a seat.
    "I thought Moe said the batteries in that camera thing would last four hours," she complained.
    Kerp sat quietly. "He's probably right."
    Michelle absorbed that statement for a moment and then responded in a severe tone, "You didn't put new batteries in it before you used it."
    He shook his head no.
    "Kerp!" she hissed furiously. "You could have gotten us killed!"
    He hung his head and nodded weakly without looking at her. "I know. I know," he mumbled. He took off the cap and examined it absently, offering no protestations.
    In a few moments, when her adrenaline level had returned to normal and her fury had begun to subside, she thought about the situation in a more levelheaded manner. There was no way that Kerp could have reasonably foreseen that low batteries in the Capcam might put them in mortal danger. "What a bitch," she mumbled. She glanced at him sitting beside her, looking more dejected than she'd ever seen him. She'd lost control and snapped at him in anger, and he'd not responded in kind.
    She slipped her hand around his elbow and clasped his forearm. "Kerp. I shouldn't have said that. It wasn't your fault."
    He shook his head. "It was," he said without lifting his eyes. "I placed you in jeopardy. There's no excuse for that. Every time I try to tell you how sorry I am, anything I could say just sounds so lame."
    "No, Kerp. You have nothing to apologize for. It just happened. You couldn't help it. I was wrong for losing my temper."
    He still just sat there shaking his head, so she reached across and turned his face toward hers with her fingertips. "Stop it," she said gently.
    "But if something had happened to you I couldn't live with myself!" he said desperately.
    She squeezed his cheeks together between her thumb and fingers, and gave his head a gentle shake, saying, "Shut. Up." In spite of himself, he had to smile a little. "Okay," she asserted. "Now we're gonna go on and leave this behind us, right?"
    Kerp nodded, and she patted him on the cheek. Keeping her arm hooked through his, she repositioned herself on the seat and nestled close against him. "Good. Now. Any idea where this bus is taking us?"
    "For ten bucks it ought to take us to our front doors."

Under the balmy rays of south Florida's November sun, a woman sat reading a book. Behind her, a luxury high-rise hotel towered, and in front of her were the ocean, white sand, and the most enormous pair of tits anyone on that beach had ever seen.
    "Excuse me, Miss. I am sorry for bother you, but I lose a Rolex watch here this morning. I am wondering have you seen it, please?" the voice said. It sounded more like gargling than English.
    Amy raised her sunglasses from her eyes and looked at the man. She felt fairly certain that his face was one of those pictured on the "Most Wanted Terrorists" list. "No," she answered, smiling sweetly. "I sure haven't. You say you lost it this morning?" she asked, straightening up in her lawn chair and deliberately adjusting a shoulder strap. One of her gigantic breasts shifted heavily within her overburdened bikini top.
    "Yes. It was gold," the man replied, not taking his eyes away from her massive, open cleavage.
    "Nope. Sorry. Must have been an expensive watch. I wish I could help — I'm sure you're just worried sick about it."
    "No, it is nothing. I will buy another. You are staying here at Hotel?"
    The man's pick-up style was as subtle as a kick in the balls, so Amy helped him along. "Yes, I am. You?"
    "Uh, Si. I am from Spain. You are here with someone?"
    "No, sir; I'm all by myself," she said with a flutter of her eyelashes.
    "You can eat dinner tonight with me?"
    "Well, how nice of you! I'd love to. My name is Linda Thomas," said Amelia Craighead, offering her hand.
    "I am Juan Vasquez," said Yazid al-Madini.

Weeks passed as the war against terrorism dragged on. Agents Myers and Kerpalscheiker had been taken off the al-Qaeda house stakeout after having been 'made' by one of its occupants. Thanksgiving had come and gone, and Ramadan was in its final days. Events in Afghanistan were moving along in an encouraging manner with the Taliban ousted from power, but Osama Bin Laden was still on the loose, and many feared he was close to having a nuclear capability.
    Rumors had been circulating about a major terrorist strike to take place before the end of the year, and the Justice Department knew that this particular hearsay was well rooted in fact. There had been some talk of canceling the FBGB's upcoming annual Christmas party because of the situation, but it was decided that in the interest of maintaining status quo, the party should proceed as planned.
    Michelle sat at her computer, accessing the National Crime Information Center database, when Kerp came in waving a stapled sheaf of papers. "Mich!" he called excitedly.
    She turned and looked at him as he bounded over to her. "What's up?"
    "Remember those encoded al-Qaeda e-mails that were intercepted a while back?"
    "Sure."
    "We just received the CIA's decryption of some of those messages, and we've got a few leads on our boy al-Madini."
    Mich's tremendous breasts bobbled nicely as she perked up. "Great! What have you got?"
    "Only bits and pieces right now — but look." Kerp removed the staple from the papers and spread them out on her desk. "This message here is insignificant except for the fact that it addresses al-Madini by one of his known aliases. So we know that this e-mail address belongs to him."
    "Okay."
    "Now. This one here was sent to the same address, no names are mentioned, but it repeatedly refers to something called an Egg; and the English word is always used. The cryptographers tried to make sense of the usage, but they couldn't figure it out until someone at the Pentagon saw it." He shuffled papers around, producing a photocopy of a US Army memorandum. The boldface title read:

RECLASSIFICATION NOTICE OF ORDNANCE
IB-230672.15a HIGH EXPLOSIVE "EGG" DEVICE.

    A rudimentary diagram was included in the memo, showing a cross-section of an elliptical object measuring 8.25 inches in length.
    "So they think the 'Egg' referred to in the e-mail is this device here?" Mich asked.
    "Right."
    "How'd al-Qaeda get hold of it?"
    "The Pentagon would very much like to know that, too. It's being vigorously investigated."
    "That thing is relatively small. How much damage could it do?"
    "It can level everything within a radius of about three city blocks. This is still hush-hush, but based on what I've been able to gather from the scuttlebutt and this Army memo, it seems to be a shaped charge that first implodes upon some kind of inner core, and then super-detonates under the resulting extreme pressure. The combined energy produces an explosion equivalent to a whole boatload of TNT. Kinda like a nuclear device, except without the fissionable material."
    An expression of horror came over Michelle's face. "Dear Lord," she whispered.
    Kerp nodded. "It's the perfect weapon for a terrorist. Small, so it's easy to transport and hide, yet powerful enough to cause mass destruction and panic."
    "Any indication how they plan to use it?"
    "Maybe. There's a reference in one of these e-mails to a 'city of iniquity'. Now that could mean a lot of places, depending on your point of view. It could be New York City, but al-Qaeda has already made their mark there — same with DC..."
    "Sin City! Las Vegas?"
    Kerp pointed to her and said, "Hold that thought. Christmas Day is also mentioned in one of the messages. Seems logical that they'd want to make a strike on that day; it'd be a real slap in the face on our biggest religious holiday of the year."
    "It does make sense, except that everyone will be at home that day. I'd assume that al-Qaeda would want to kill the maximum number of people with a device like this, but they can't if we're all snuggled up around our own individual fireplaces."
    "Right. But what if there was a big sports event scheduled for Christmas Day?"
    "Yeah, that'd work, if it was big enough."
    "I was listening to the radio a few days ago, and there was an interview with one of the college football commissioners. He was saying that his conference had moved a big Bowl game to Christmas Day this year."
    "How well attended will it be?"
    "Last year 28,000 fans showed up for this particular bowl. This year they expect about the same: 25,000 to 30,000 people.
    "Which bowl game is it?"
    "The Las Vegas Bowl."
    "Las Vegas," Mich echoed as a chill ran down her spine.
    "The game will be televised on ABC."
    "Shit. It's perfect. Have you run this by Hudson?"
    "Not yet."
    "We'd better. As soon as possible."

Hudson examined the documents as he listened to Kerp and Michelle relate to him their theory of a Christmas Day bombing of the Las Vegas Bowl. "Sam Boyd Stadium? How old is that facility?" he asked, not looking up.
    "It's thirty years old and has 32,000 seats," Kerp reported.
    "Isn't al-Madini the one who pulled out of the September eleventh flight at the last minute?"
    "Yep. The same."
    The Director studied silently for another minute, and finally commented, "This is good work, but there's one big problem: you haven't told me what his plan is." He looked at them in a way that managed to piss Kerp off.
    No, and we haven't told you his current street address or his hat size either, you pompous old fart! What the hell do you want? he silently screamed at his boss.
    Hudson continued, "What kind of cover will they be using? How are they going to smuggle the bomb into the stadium? Once inside, where will it be detonated? What time do they intend to set it off?"
    Michelle sensed Kerp's ire and discreetly placed a hand on his forearm. "Sir, we may not know their precise plan, but we do have enough evidence here to warrant having the Las Vegas Bowl game cancelled."
    "Yes, and that's what we'll do if all else fails. But if we cancel it, they'll pick another target on another day, and we might not be so lucky as to get wind of their operation next time. The Pentagon says only one of their Eggs was stolen, fortunately, and records show that the theft had to have happened after September first, which was their last inventory before the device went missing. Now listen. Al-Madini is a lot of things, but he's no coward. His performance against the Soviets in Afghanistan was stellar: the CIA loved him. You can be sure that when he chose not to get on that airplane, it wasn't because he got cold feet. My guess is they suddenly changed their strategy once they got their hands on the Egg, and al-Madini is the man with the plan. No mention is made about the device in any other intercepted al-Qaeda messages, only in those to al-Madini.
    "Since the eleventh," Hudson continued, "security has been substantially beefed up all over the world, especially here in the US. Now, for this Christmas Day plan of theirs to work, absolute secrecy is vital; so you can bet they're being pretty damn tight-lipped about it. My guess is, al-Madini is the only one who knows their entire strategy, and he keeps it all inside his head. No one else has any details. Then when the time comes, he simply delivers the package personally. We know he was already slated to die in the first attacks, and the only reason he'd back out is if a better opportunity suddenly came up. The Egg is his new ticket to glory. If we can get to him before Christmas Day, we have a chance to foil this plan and get the device back so it won't ever be used against us or anyone else."
    Kerp saw that Hudson was right. "We don't have much time, then. Christmas is a week from Tuesday."
    Hudson nodded grimly. "We need to do good work and we need to do it fast. Fortunately, we have a lead. A local fibbie saw a couple of al-Madini's men getting out of a cab in front of the Montgomery Hotel in Las Vegas, so you two are going to go there and check that out. Michelle, you're our primary asset in this operation, so I want you to leave for Vegas as soon as possible. We'll book you on a flight for tomorrow morning. Kerp, you follow on — let's say Monday night, so you two won't appear to be together..."
    "What about the Departmental Resources meeting?" he asked, mentally kicking himself for opening his big mouth.
    "Okay then, you'll leave Tuesday." He turned to Michelle and went on, "While you wait for him to arrive, let yourself be seen around the hotel. Hang out in the bar — or make that 'bars,' plural: the Montgomery is huge. Anyway, just be visible and see who tries to pick you up. If a guy looks foreign and dangerous, go with him."
    Kerp didn't like that at all. He had always been with Mich in these situations: hidden in the shadows, but ready to come to her aid in an instant. For those first few days in Vegas, he'd be unable to protect her life or her honor. He knew she could take care of herself, but he still felt helpless.
    Hudson finished going over their assignment, and before dismissing them, lightened the mood by asking, "By the way, are you two coming to the Christmas party tonight?"
    They exchanged smiles.

The annual FBGB Christmas party was a members-only affair

The annual FBGB Christmas party was a members-only affair, both in order to maintain internal security as well as to keep out curious sightseers. Each employee was allowed to invite one guest, who would have to be screened and cleared beforehand. This year, Kerp invited Mich, and Mich invited Kerp; neither one had been seeing anyone for some time, and they each felt that the party would be safe, neutral ground for a non-committal date. And since they were both employees, their outside invitations remained unused. Kerp decided to ask Moe to come, considering he'd been spending most of his time hiding out since September. Also, Moe had been pestering Kerp for a tour of the 'Bureau of Boobs' ever since he'd realized it actually existed; however, as tours were not permitted, the Christmas party seemed like a perfect alternative.
    The unofficial but religiously-adhered-to dress code for the event was always "Bare As You Dare". The Bureau seamstress was typically quite busy this time of year, making extravagant dresses for extraordinary figures. Special Agent Lynn Cameron wore a strapless sequined gown that left everyone wondering how in the world she was supporting her astoundingly immense breasts, which projected a startling distance out in front of her. Assistant Deputy Director Myra Jean Hinkle had on a skin-tight short skirt with a matching jacket that was breathtakingly low cut. It was strategically buttoned so tightly across her incredibly huge bust that the upper hemispheres of her gigantic breasts seemed to be leaping out of its plunging neckline. Agent Evelyn Cuthbertson showed up wearing a special Santa Claus suit, complete with black boots and red pants, a red hat with a snowball at the tip, and a red coat that fit her astounding figure like a glove. At least that's what people assumed, until they looked more closely. Though alcohol had already begun to blur the partygoers' senses, one by one you could hear people begin howling with laughter as they realized that Santa was not wearing a coat at all. In fact there was not a stitch of clothing covering her ponderously bosomy torso. Her bright red 'coat' had been painted on from her waist to her neck, complete with buttons, belt, pockets, and collar. Things got interesting when it came time for everyone to sit on Santa's lap and tell her what they wanted for Christmas.
    As part of the FBGB employee benefit package, female office workers and wives of employees were eligible for more moderate breast augmentations — 'moderate', that is, as compared to the colossal enlargements undergone by the bureau's field agents. Not many women ever passed up this offer of a free non-surgical boob job, and as a result, FBGB social functions like this were always extremely mammiferous affairs. There wasn't a flat chest in the house, and almost all of these big bosoms were on prominent display.
    When Kerp arrived with Michelle on his arm, she was wearing a fairly simple yet elegant red dress with a slit up one side. The bodice of the backless dress was minimal. Her huge unbrassiered breasts were covered only by two wedges of thin material that narrowed into straps and tied around the back of her neck. It offered no support at all, yet her tremendous knockers jutted out from her chest like twin torpedoes being launched from a submarine. They were able to bounce and sway freely behind the dress's flimsy bodice, caroming about when she walked, and undulating when she was idle. Nodding conspicuously to everyone, her stout nipples stayed erect the entire evening due to constant rubbing against the inside of her gown.
    After they had been mingling for a while, Kerp's cell phone rang. Mich raised her eyebrows at him to rebuke him for leaving it turned on. "I'm waiting to hear from Moe," he apologized as he got out his phone. "Kerpalscheiker," he answered. "Hey, Mohammed... Great. I'll be right out." He snapped it shut and pointed at Mich, saying, "I'm going outside to bring Moe in — nobody picks you up, okay?" She grinned and nodded. "I mean it!" he said, jogging toward the door of the rented hall.
    "Better hurry, then," she said, winking at him. The exchange had suddenly moistened Michelle's panties.
    Kerp stepped outside and saw Moe. As they greeted each other, Kerp noticed that Moe was wearing a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap. He took him aside, away from the security guards at the door and whispered, "Listen — it's unwise to surreptitiously photograph any function of a federal intelligence agency. I'm gonna have to hold the Capcam for you so you don't get yourself into trouble."
    Moe was deflated, but he perked back up when Kerp handed him a palm-size video camera from his coat pocket and said, "However, there's no rule against openly bringing a camcorder to the party. Lots of people do. I did. It's got a blank tape in it, so have a ball. Just make yourself a copy before you give it back."
    Kerp passed him through security and Moe entered the party like Dorothy stepping out into Oz. Nothing but great, huge, gigantic breasts everywhere, he marveled. Acres and acres of them! All jiggly and hanging out! He leaned over to Kerp and asked, "Are any of these women single?"
    "Sure, some."
    "Which ones, dude?"
    "The ones that don't have wedding rings, bozo. Hit on Mich and I'll kill you where you stand."
    "No problem, man. She's your squeeze."
    "Well, not really. We're just close friends. In law enforcement, becoming romantically involved with your partner can be a real temptation, but it'll cloud your judgement. It's always a bad idea."
    Moe snorted skeptically. "Yeah right. You're fuckin' her, dude."
    "No, really," he protested, helplessly feeling himself beginning to blush, "we don't, we've never, there's no..."
    "The way you two were, over at my place? And you're not fucking her? I would be."
    "What do you mean, the way we 'were'?"
    "Never mind, man. Whatever. Anyway, I appreciate the use of the camcorder. I'm gonna mingle." He turned, surveyed the crowd, and headed toward a cluster of busty young ladies.
    "'Fucking her'," Kerp mumbled as he stood on his tiptoes to see where Michelle had gotten to. He strained to recognize the top of her head amongst all the other tops of heads, but he didn't see her.
    "Hey you," came her voice from behind him.
    He started and whirled around. "Oh! There you are. Hi."
    She stood there a moment just smiling at him, and then asked "Did you bring Moe in?"
    "Yeah. He's here somewhere." The sound system suddenly roared to life, pumping out the driving prelude to the first dance number of the night. Michelle couldn't help but shake her voluptuous booty to the beat, causing her huge breasts to bob and quiver deliciously. Kerp took note of this hyperkinesia, and formed a plan whereby he could get Michelle to wiggle about even more vigorously while standing right in front of him, and he could watch without appearing to ogle her. "Mich, let me ask you something."
    "Sure."
    "Do you mind being seen in public, dancing with someone who dances like a fool?"
    She grinned. "Well, that would depend on the fool. Who'd you have in mind?"
    "The fool you work with."
    "Oh, him. Yes, I'll dance with that guy. He's one of my favorite fools."
    Michelle accompanied Kerp to the dance floor, and began rocking her curvy hips to the music. Kerp was so entranced watching her that he forgot about himself and actually danced a little less stiffly than normal. But no one was looking at him: Michelle was quickly drawing the attention of every wandering eye.
    Her round fanny and shapely legs carried her artfully across the floor, twisting and turning, dipping and shaking, all of which sent extraordinary gyrations through her enormous breasts. They bounced heavily and thrashed from side to side beneath her minimal bodice, constantly reshaping themselves into different luscious, bulging variations. People couldn't help but watch her lovely writhing form and marvel at both her skill and her magnificent, wobbling breasts.
    After a while the song faded, but a second later the music began again with a slow dance. Mich and Kerp smiled sheepishly at each other as they closed the gap between them. They were not quite into position when they both realized that Michelle's immense tits were presenting a major obstacle to dancing cheek to cheek. Though her immense bust was firmly squeezed between their torsos, a considerable gap still separated the dance partners. They looked down at her expansive cleavage for a moment and then back at each other with disappointment. "Oops. I haven't slow-danced with anyone since my boobs got this big," she explained apologetically.
    Kerp found himself receiving this news well: it made him feel a little better about not being able hold her any closer. With Mich's extraordinary bosom jammed against his chest and bulging up right under his nose, Kerp started becoming aroused. He comforted himself with the fact that if he couldn't enjoy dancing cheek to cheek with her, at least he wouldn't risk suffering the embarrassment of accidentally poking her with his boner.
    Suddenly Mich straightened up, looked at him determinedly and announced, "I'm sorry. This just won't do!" And with that, she firmly pulled him right up close to her, spreading apart her huge unbridled boobs. "There! Much better," she a said approvingly. And with a wry grin she added, "I've got you surrounded now, Kerpalsheiker. Surrender peacefully or I'll have to use force."
    Having her in his arms like that and looking into her lovely face mere inches from his, he found himself suddenly incapable of forming a typical witty response. He was too consumed with her nearness, so he merely said, "Merry Christmas, Michelle."
    "Merry Christmas, Louis," she answered. She rarely called him by his first name, but when she did, it took on a sense that was never present when anyone else used it. He didn't like his given name, which was why he had everyone call him 'Kerp', but when she called him Louis, he treasured it.
    If she felt his erection against her body, she made no mention of it. She laid her head on his shoulder as they danced and he leaned his head against hers. They were both wishing there were some way this moment could last longer than the paltry couple of minutes most songs ran. As they danced, Moe zoomed in on their blissful expressions so he could rub Kerp's nose in it later. Then for his own benefit, he also zoomed in on Michelle's superabundant breasts, splayed out on either side of Kerp's torso.
    The couple danced on dreamily, oblivious to the knowing expressions on the faces of those nearby who looked upon their shuffling embrace.
    Another tradition at the FBGB Christmas party was playing Twister. Though commonly considered a party game for adolescents, bureau personnel had brought Twister to a new level with the added dimensions of cash prizes and scantily dressed giant-breasted contestants. This version of Twister had become very popular over the years at their Christmas party.
    For the uninitiated, Twister is a simple game where the play area is a vinyl floor mat measuring about four by six feet, and printed with a grid of large colored dots. Participants must place a particular hand or foot on any dot of a specific color when it comes their turn. Only designated hands and feet are to touch the mat at any time. In order to reach the nearest dot of a specific color, players often have to thread their limbs in and out of the body parts of other players in ways that polite people don't normally allow. When played by the standard rules, the choice of extremity and color are determined randomly by spinning a pointer included with the game. A player is disqualified if he or she is not able to place the correct extremity on the prescribed color without falling or touching the mat with another part of their body.
    For the FBGB Christmas Party, however, it was a long established rule that these variables are to be decided by a judge instead, whose implicit duty is to deliberately place the players in as many embarrassing and compromising positions as possible. This year the judge was Evelyn Cuthbertson in her mind-blowing Santa 'suit'.
    It was announced that the game was about to start, and everyone began gathering around the Twister mat that was spread out in the middle of the floor. As usual, Director Hudson was chosen as one of the first contestants, because humiliating the boss is such a tasty thing to get away with. He was always a good sport about it, though.
    Two players of each gender were appointed, and one by one Evelyn began assigning them colors upon which they were to place their feet and hands. Everyone howled with laughter as Hudson was mercilessly given difficult objectives that eventually placed his face in the immediate vicinity of someone's butt.
    Hudson's bosomy wife Frances stood on the sidelines clapping and laughing at her husband's predicament. A former Agent herself, she was considered by many to be Hudson's best personal quality. Though in her late fifties, she was still a beautiful, sexy woman, as caring and outgoing as her husband was gruff.
    As Mich and Kerp watched the antics, Michelle was slowly working her way forward to get a better view, pulling her partner with her by the hand. Kerp, however, didn't want to be dragged to the front because of the danger of being chosen to play. Her persistence and interest in the activity were indomitable, however, and it wasn't long before his fear was realized.
    When Agent Cuthbertson saw Michelle, still the new kid on the block with her dazzling form and features, standing alongside her partner Kerp the wunderkind, they were instantly selected to play in the next round. One of the recirculating topics of conversation around the bureau water cooler was whether or not the two were lovers. Everyone would be closely watching the upcoming interactions.
    'Santa' went on to choose two more players, Sam Werth, husband of Kathy Werth in the Records department, and Special Agent Lynn Cameron. Lynn's phenomenally huge breasts were currently the biggest of any active Agent in the bureau, both in terms of cup size and bust measurement.
    Mich leaned over and whispered to Kerp, "Lynn sure has herself a set of bellywhoppers, doesn't she? Dude!" He laughed at both her colorful terminology and her use of the expression dude, which for some reason sounded funny when used by a girl.
    With all the players chosen, Kerp was first to go. After he took off his shoes and stood on the proper starting circles, Evelyn instructed him to place his right hand on a green circle, so he chose one near the center of the mat for future easy access to other colors. Michelle stepped onto her initial circles next, and was assigned to touch a red circle with her left hand. She mentally selected a spot next to Kerp's, but hesitated a moment, concerned that she was about to publicly lean forward with her braless breasts and plunging neckline. The moment was brief, though, as she realized it didn't matter in front of this crowd, and besides, that sort of thing was half the point of the game. So she crouched, stretched her left arm toward the chosen circle, and carefully leaned over beyond her center of gravity, plopping down heavily on her hand. Fleshy shock waves reverberated throughout her enormous tits, which dangled almost low enough to touch the mat. She looked at her partner with a helpless smile as her big undulating boobs drew a round of appreciative applause from the onlookers, peppered with a couple of hoots.
    Lynn Cameron was next, stepping onto her two designated beginning dots as the judge considered a strategy. In a moment a decision was made, and Lynn was appointed to touch her left hand to a yellow circle. In preparation, she made a show of tugging up on the deep neckline of the strapless gown into which her colossal mammaries nearly fit, in hopes of keeping them in there. Gently, she lowered herself to a squat and reached her hand toward the dot she'd picked. Taking a moment to focus her concentration, she made the commitment and lunged toward her target. Lynn's bosom was so incredibly immense that it made solid contact with the floor even before the flat of her palm did. She immediately raised her butt up in the air as high as she could to keep her gigantic tits off the mat, affording the onlookers both fore and aft with a spectacular view. She laughed at her situation, causing her massive breasts to quiver substantially as they hung less than an inch from the mat. The crowd called her on the violation, but Judge Santa granted her a handicap based on the extraordinary magnitude of her breasts: she'd be allowed that one contact, but she'd be out if it happened again.
    Then Sam entered the arena, stood on his beginning spots, and was assigned a color and hand. He chose a dot in front of Mich, giving him an unobstructed view down the front of her dress. His wife, a cute little woman with full D-cup breasts (courtesy of the bureau), set her jaw as she watched her husband scoping out Michelle's deep cleavage.
    Judge Evelyn appointed Kerp a colored circle that forced him to choose between sticking his foot between Sam's legs or underneath Mich's torso. He chose the latter, even though it was just a bit farther away. Then Michelle's turn came, and she had to put her free hand on a circle just below and behind her dangling tits, sliding it under Kerp's outstretched leg.
    Lynn was then instructed to place her right hand on a blue circle. She looked around and found the blue circle closest to that hand, about two feet away. She raised up on her toes and fingertips, and braced herself for the attempt. She leaned over to her right and quickly thrust her hand over to the other circle, landing on it successfully. The crowd applauded as her gigantic boobs shuddered and quivered heavily beneath her. When Lynn started squealing, people assumed it was a victory cry; but she was responding to the sensation of her monstrous tits slipping out of her commodious brassiere. The strapless underwire bra was the only thing preventing her weighty breasts from overpowering the gown's bodice and spilling out into view.
    At this point, however, that scenario was inescapable. The pitch and volume of Lynn's shriek rose to a crescendo as her monstrously overdeveloped tits slid free of all restraint. As they fell out and butted against the mat, she gave up her stance and clutched her exposed immensity, trying to cover herself. The crowd applauded her astoundingly huge bare tits with appreciation as she struggled without success to put 30 gallons of bosom back into a 15-gallon bra. A gentleman from the crowd kindly stepped up and took off his suit jacket, laying it over the chest of the disqualified contestant and helping her off the playing area.
    As the round continued, the judge endeavored to maneuver the players into more and more difficult positions, trying to thoroughly embarrass them, eliminate them from the game, or both. Moe circled the area of play with Kerp's camcorder, selecting various strategic vantage points for the best shots. He was more interested in exposed tit flesh than the course of the game, but then most everyone else felt pretty much the same. Having now wormed his way to the front, he found a spot facing Agents Myers and Kerpalscheiker. From there he got some great video right down Mich's neckline.
    In order to touch a circle, she had stretched her right leg out at an extreme angle through the slit in her dress, exposing that shapely leg up to her hip. Kerp was directly to her left, in a position that was low to the floor and difficult to maintain. Sam was behind them both, getting an eyeful of Mich's lovely long leg right in front of his face.
    Michelle's turn came, and she was given the task of touching a red circle with her left hand. She looked around, and all the red circles seemed to be unreachable. There was one on the other side of Kerp that she could have touched if he weren't in the way. As she studied it, however, a terrible idea came to her, and the more she thought about it, the better she liked it. Being careful to keep her feet and right hand in place, she moved her torso to the left until her tremendous breasts were positioned behind Kerp's head. He felt them bump against him, and wondered what in the world she was doing.
    "Hold very still, Kerp," she advised.
    "What are you..." he started. Suddenly he felt her great, heavy boobs pushing slowly forward, messing his hair as they slid around both sides of his head. The onlookers started to hoot and cheer enthusiastically. As her tits slipped over his ears, Mich was able to reach her left hand and place it on the red circle. The crowd broke out into a combination of laughter and applause, and a few cameras flashed.
    There in a row bobbled Michelle's huge left breast, then (noticeably smaller) Kerp's head, and finally, Mich's other huge breast. Photos would eventually be posted on bureau bulletin boards to ensure the humor of the moment was properly appreciated and preserved. Kerp started laughing too, which made it impossible for him to hold his position any longer, and he dropped onto the mat.
    Michelle was also laughing, which made her enormous boobs shake as they dangled beneath her. Just as Kerp turned his head around to see what was going on, Mich's laughter made her unable to further maintain her position either, and she fell on him. Her enormous bosom came down upon his face, swallowing his head deep into her cleavage. It was a place Kerp had never been before, but he'd imagined it more than once. He would have been quite content to spend much more time there.
    Mich had become so tickled at both her audacity and the results of it, that she just lay there on top of him laughing helplessly. Part of her mind remained occupied, savoring the sensation of having his face pressed in between her huge boobs, but she resisted the urge to wrap her arms around his head and hold it there.
    Evelyn declared Sam the winner of that round, and Michelle cheerfully but reluctantly lifted herself off Kerp's face and then helped him up. They stepped off the mat arm in arm as Sam took a twenty-dollar bill to his fuming wife. It's not always the winner who takes away the prize.

As the party began to wind down and the crowd of revelers started thinning, Kerp looked around for Moe to see how he was getting along and to make sure he hadn't dropped the camcorder into the punch. He asked Mich to excuse him and went to check out the men's room in case he might be having a bad time in there; but no Moe.
    He came back out and searched around the entire hall, finally learning that Moe had gone home with a lovely trainee named Faith Church. It was her real name. Her tits were real as well: all 49 inches of them. She was a petite thing, except for her L-cup breasts, which looked even bigger on her tiny frame. Her short-cropped pixie haircut and demure manner also contrasted sharply with her huge boobs, resulting in such a fantastically busty visage that it was decided any artificial enlargement would be superfluous, at least for the present.
    Kerp was happy for Moe. Faith had certainly found a man who appreciates extraordinarily big tits. And speaking of which, he wondered, where's Michelle now? She was right over there when I went into the..."
    "Did you find him?"
    Kerp turned and there she was again. "You're getting pretty good at sneaking up on me."
    "It's the Cherokee blood in me. So. No Moe?"
    "Not no mo'e. Seems Moe got lucky tonight. Went home with Faith Church."
    "Really! Faith?" Mich smiled in wonder, imagining the two together. "Interesting," she commented. "I'd have never thought it. So why are you standing there looking around, then?" she said with a growing grin.
    "I was looking for you."
    "Standing right there, looking for me?" she asked, pointing toward his feet.
    "Yeah," he answered, looking down and wondering what was going on.
    "That's a very good place to stand, Kerpalscheiker," she said, taking his face between her hands and kissing him gently but firmly on the lips. Her immense breasts pressed solidly against his chest as some low-priority part of his brain tried to make sense of it. Though the kiss lingered, it was over far too soon. After their lips parted, the look of delighted confusion on his face prompted her to point upward and explain, "You're under the mistletoe."
    He gazed up at the decorations hanging from the ceiling and saw the sprig with its white berries. Well, bless their sneaky little hearts, Kerp mused with gratitude. "Thank you," he said simply.
    Mich winked at him.

Kerp was starting to worry. On Saturday morning, he had taken Michelle to the airport to catch her flight to Las Vegas, and she'd promised to call as soon as she got to her hotel room. It was now Monday morning and no one had heard from her. He'd called the Montgomery and learned that she had checked in, but she wasn't answering his calls to her room, and her cell phone was apparently turned off. Once more, he mentally listed all the possibilities that might keep a responsible professional from touching base for so long. Just then the phone at Kerp's desk rang, and he picked it up immediately hoping it would be her. It was Hudson, asking him to come to his office.
    As he walked down the hall, he hoped that maybe Mich had called and talked to him, and this meeting would be his briefing on that conversation. As he approached Hudson's secretary, she told him to go right in the Director's office.
    "Kerp, come in. Have a seat."
    Hudson always called him by his full last name: never 'Kerp'. He wondered what was going on.
    The Director asked for a run-down on the current status of their search for Yazid al-Madini, but he didn't seem to be paying much attention. He failed to respond with his usual insistence that every 'i' be dotted and every 't' crossed. When Kerp had finished relating to him all the details that could possibly be told, he stopped and waited for Hudson to react, but he only sat there looking at his folded hands.
    "Sir," Kerp prodded, "has there been any word from Michelle?"
    The Director drew a slow breath and replied, "Not as such. However there has been a development of sorts. Umm," he paused, searching for words. "Kerp, there's been a body found in Las Vegas."
    "A body?" he asked weakly, his circulation running cold.
    "A Jane Doe. No ID yet: the, uh — the head and hands are missing. At this time the only feature we have to go on is — is the extreme size of the victim's breasts."
    Kerp couldn't think. He wanted to cry, but couldn't because that would be an admission that the victim could be Michelle — and he would not face that prospect. He'd been trying to exclude the worst from his thinking for over a day now, but it was now muscling its way through, refusing to be ignored any longer. He felt like a trapped animal, frantically looking in every direction for a means of escape but not finding one. He was near panic. He felt nauseated. He had no idea what to do.
    "Kerp. Kerp, are you okay?"
    He looked at Hudson but couldn't talk. There were no words to say.
    "Son, do you need some time off?" the Director gently asked.
    Kerp had never heard the Director speak in such a way before, but no notice was taken. He declined the offer by shaking his head. What good would it do to go home? He had to be here. He had to be ready in case she called. She had to call. Please, Lord, it can't be her on that slab.
    If anything else was said in his meeting with Hudson, Kerp couldn't remember. He sat at his desk numbed for the rest of the morning, staring at nothing. He couldn't even bring himself to pray that Mich was alive, because in his mind, that would open the door to the possibility that she might be dead. His coworkers had heard the news, and watched his silent repose with concern, but few spoke to him. When everyone returned from lunch, he was still there, motionless.
    Finally, just before 3:00 PM, he picked up his coat, walked out of the office and down to the street. He just kept walking the rest of the afternoon, checking every five or ten minutes to make sure his cell phone was still on, until he found himself at the Washington monument, gazing blankly into the reflecting pool.
    As he thought about Mich, he began to consider the many thousands who still had no word from their loved ones since the attack — only the same open-ended, inescapable dread he himself was now suffering. He tried to assimilate the magnitude of the crime: the destruction of property, the toll of so many lives destroyed or forever changed, and the irretrievable loss of an innocence the nation hadn't even been aware it possessed.
    He could only respond with an outburst of great heaving sobs that poured out like a river from deep in his soul. Just a few short months ago, passers-by would have stared at him, wondering what could possibly be so sad. But now, few around him had questions: only their own tears to add to that salt sea that was still being cried.

Late that night, he woke up in his own bed, startled. He'd fallen asleep with all his clothes on, lying there looking at Mich's photo, not really expecting to be able to sleep. He saw by his alarm clock that it was past 2:00 in the morning. What had awakened him?
    His cell phone rang a second time, and he scrambled to pick it up and answer.
    "Hello!" he almost shouted.
    "Kerp," a voice panted weakly.
    "Mich? Mich!" It was her! Wasn't it? Surely!
    "Got a problem here," she rasped.
    Whatever the problem, Kerp was overjoyed to have it. "Where are you? What's going on?" But the only response he got from her end was a repeated clicking sound, and then nothing. "Hello? Mich! Hello!"
    The connection was gone. Terrible though this was, it was certainly an improvement. He tried calling her cell number but it was still off line. Then he tried her hotel room, but there was no answer. He quickly dialed the FBI communications center and filed an emergency request that the previous call to his cell number be traced.
    He slapped the phone shut and leapt out of bed. He started packing a suitcase so he'd be ready to go as soon as he got word of the origin of Michelle's call. He was glad it was so much easier to book a late flight these days, even now during Christmas.
    Wait. Hudson needs to know what's going on! Kerp grabbed the phone again and searched his address book for Hudson's home number. He'd never had occasion to use it before, and never imagined he'd ever want to, but he knew the Director would want this call, even at 2:00 AM.

A little more than four hours later, Kerp was on a plane headed for Las Vegas. Hudson had been so excited when Kerp told him he'd heard from Michelle, that he'd gotten out of bed to make a few calls of his own. He'd spoken to the communications officer on duty, ordering a top priority authorization for Kerp's trace, and it had come through within minutes. The call had been made from her cell phone, originating from a cell zone within the city of Las Vegas. The hotel where she was booked, the Montgomery, was located within that zone, and was the most logical place to start looking. Hudson had also contacted the FAA, clearing the way for Kerp to walk on the first plane to Vegas in the morning without a security check. As a law enforcement officer, he was permitted to carry a weapon on board, serving as a temporary Air Marshal on the flight.
    Kerp always preferred to upgrade his business-class ticket to first class and pay the difference out of his own pocket, not because of the extra service or nice wide seats (though these amenities were not lost on him). It was primarily because he hated waiting for a couple hundred bozos to shuffle lethargically off the plane when he was in a hurry. And he was certainly in a hurry now. He had never felt a keener sense of urgency, sitting idly on that plane for hours on end.

End of Part I

Go to Part II