Men’s Rally And Riot

Based on ‘One In Ten’ by FinalStand, adapted into 17 parts. Listen to the ► Podcast at Explicit Novels.

The

Persians marshalled all the nations under the Sun and Stars yet they

were defeated by a single idea: Sacrifice, and their inability to

appreciate it.

After

tonight, we would become a democracy because I could trust the group to

see beyond gender and into the ideas and ideals of the speaker. True

democracy was not about the tyranny of numbers, but consensus. Consensus

was the result of the belief that everyone in the group, even the

opposition, had worth, they counted.

How

in the Hell, after all the wrong turns my life had taken, could I still

believe I was an idealist? It was simple. I had not let them win. In a

very crude, sexual way it was that I had the confidence in one girl, my

first date, to ask her to hold off on true intercourse and she respected

my wishes. In the kaleidoscope of my fractured mind, that memory burned

through.

Listening

to the women in my living room talking while I dressed in the bedroom, a

tiny shiver of one memory collided and melded with another. No women I

had ever known had not betrayed me in one way or another. That was the

terror of distrust for me, but, no woman, or man, was perfect. They

would all betray me, sooner or later.

I

now understood this wasn't bad. It was human nature. We all let people

down around us, even the ones we cared about. Pain had led me to hunt

for perfection. That was a pointless quest and a pursuit that led to

madness. What I should have been looking for was restitution. Did that

person know they had wronged me and were they trying to make it up to

me?

The

same held true for me. Was I a true friend, looking after those I had

wronged and balancing accounts with them as well? Honesty, Truth and

Love, the harshest bitches on the block. I meditated for twenty minutes

before heading back to my assembled friends.

"You look nice," Kuiko beamed. "Really nice."

"Thank you," I blushed slightly. More Bethany clothes.

"That wasn't a compliment, you jerk," Capri glared. "Last chance. This is stupid."

"Noted

and acknowledged, Ms. O'Hara," I nodded. "I need a taxi." I pulled out

my phone and began looking up taxi services. My phone rang.

“FBI across the street” it read. I shuddered. I wasn't upset. I was peeved.

“Do you like my new underwear you Pervs?” I hung up. I didn't care if they liked my underwear.

"Them?" Capri asked softly.

"Yeah."

"Damn it, you just took a shower, shaved and got dressed. Can't they leave you alone for an hour?" she griped.

"Who?" Roni got out first.

"Santa's Little Helpers," Capri grumbled. "I really ought to do something about them."

"Let

us not revisit the whole 'you dismembered in the morgue' thing, shall

we," I requested. "Besides, I gave them a piece of my mind this time."

"Not the sexy part!" Kuiko blurted out.

"What did you do?" Capri studied me.

"I called them pervs," I declared. "No, I did not, Kuiko. The sexy is all for you." She smiled.

"Oh yeah, that will do it," Capri pressed her wrist to her forehead and announced dramatically.

"What do I want to do more," Venus mumbled, "fight over the sexy or find out what the hell is going on?"

"Perverted

Santa's Little Helpers who leave dismembered bodies in the morgue and

have an apparent issue with Israel naked or semi-naked," Roni mused.

"Capri, after he leaves, you are going to do some explaining."

"I think this is my cue to leave," I told the room then headed for the door.

"Aren't you going to call a taxi?" Aniqua reminded me.

"The FBI is going to drive me there," I grinned.

"What makes you say that?" Samantha gulped.

"When

the alternative is letting me flag down a cabby that may, or may not,

be homicidal, my bet is they'll drop me off at the arena," I explained.

"Makes sense to me," Kuiko nodded. "If I had a car, I'd give him a ride."

"Kuiko, for once I agree with you," Venus muttered.

"I'm not as dumb as I look," Kuiko turned that 1000 watt smile on Venus.

"Of course you are not," Roni chortled. "Otherwise you couldn't walk and talk at the same time."

I

went around and kissed each one of them, on the lips. Normally that

should have made them happy, but they kept looking at me like they'd

never see me again. Clever girls. I left the complex and scanned the

streets. There was the car, at the edge of a car park down the street.

It wasn't as if there were many car owners in this part of town.

I

hurried across the street and I was whistling. Special Agent Sosa

lowered the window as I approached. Across from her was S A Saris, also

with Dimple's team.

"Yes?" Sosa sighed. "When staking out a place it sort of blows our cover if you walk right up to us, by the way."

"That's cool," I grinned. "We aren't staying here anyway. I need a ride to the Arena."

"Do we look like a taxi service?" Sosa smirked.

"I'm going, you are following. We might as well make it easy on us, save a few volts," I reasoned.

"Get in," Saris grumbled. I gladly did so and off we went.

"Planning to get arrested?" Saris asked.

"Planning? No. Expecting it to be a possibility, yes," I admitted. "Any news?"

"Dr. Fremont is still missing, but her company hired a GlobeMaster to haul a whole lot of something to Bolivia," Sosa answered.

Seeing my confusion, Saris added.

"A GlobeMaster is a really big aircraft, used for hauling freight, not passengers."

My impulse was to say 'can you shoot it down,' but the illegality of the action was stunning.

"Anything on your front?" Sosa inquired.

"Let

me see, my Capri's Mom wants her to be a cum-dumpster, seven girls

stopped by my place today to drag me out of my home and make me their

bitch. My tribe made them back down, this time. Now my ladies are camped

out at my place, murdering my AC unit and praying I make it back home

in some sort of working order," I outlined.

"Why did they let you go? Are they some kind of pansies?" Sosa mocked.

"I'd

hit you upside your head for that comment, but you are driving, armed

and most likely a much better fighter than me," I replied. "They are not

pansies. They risked harm for me today."

"What happened at the firefight today, anyway?" Saris asked.

"Not really sure," I lied. "Bullets were flying and I was running for my life."

"You didn't see anything?" she persisted. Damn her interrogation abilities.

"Wait, with guns going off I thought you would be happy I was running away," I evaded.

"Why didn't you wait for Agents Vabishi and Fraklos to get there?"

"Capri and I got across the street so we ran for it," I shrugged.

"Next time, lay flat and we'll come get you," Saris told me.

"Thanks,

G I Jane," was my snarky comeback. "Maybe if you let me have some sort

of combat training I'd know what to do next time." I was making light of

things, but in the back of my mind, like a cornered badger in the dark,

I knew I was in a vehicle with two women I didn't know.

It

wasn't like I could tell myself they were law enforcement agents and

feel better. Kwan, Riga, Seger and Somerset had all be cruel to me in

some way. Dimples' crew had tackled me on the ground, intimidated me,

deceived me, torn away my rights and played upon my feeble psyche. Trust

hadn't placed me in this car, expediency had.

The

FBI was the best chance I had to get to the Arena intact. I doubted

they would have appreciated me defining their actions as our evolving

tribalism. I was their investment, so it behooved them to take me safely

to my destination. I didn't believe they yet understood that they had

stopped working for the Director of the FBI, or the Attorney General and

had become self-employed.

They

may have had this delusion that this would end up with criminal

indictments against the people behind the Big Lie and Carabolix-37, but

that was an unsustainable fantasy. Once the system betrayed them, as it

had betrayed me so often, Dimples' crew would know that escape was the

only option left. It was obvious to me the moment I saw Dimples.

She

would never let them win. She was the only one allowed to win. I didn't

count the freebie she threw my way. That was a draw at best. The ride

to the Arena turned out to be nothing much. I was dropped off. Men, and

cops, were all around. I dutifully showed my I D to Arena Security, they

triple checked it and then brought a coordinator to check it one more

time.

They

realized I was in the front third of the arena floor seating. I had a

nice folding chair on the outer aisle. The coordinator decided that was a

bad idea so she had me exchange seats with a guy in the middle of my

row. I knew why this was, though I only had theoretical knowledge how a

rally would work.

When

the authorities left, having neutralized me, I politely went to the man

I had exchanged seats with and asked him to switch back. He seemed

dubious, but when I explained that all the blame would be foisted on me,

he relented. See, here is how it worked. First your Talking Heads would

get up and make their speeches.

Then

would come the long question and answer portion of this farce. Women

would walk up and down the aisles, men would raise their hands, wave and

asked if they could present a question. In a totally democratic

process, these women on the aisles would provide a sound system for the

men to ask the speaker their question.

The

speaker answers, on to the next man. As you might guess, men sitting on

the aisle seats had the best chances of being heard. Men stuck in the

middle were out of luck, men like me and my 'new' assigned seat. Men

like me in my original seat, were potentially dangerous. Still, things

went along very smoothly until the tenth question.

Up

to that point, the speakers had done their thing with the basic theme

being 'all you men are appreciated, doing your part, and we love you.’

Not that they were going to do a damn thing to help us beyond patting us

on the head, but they loved us. They loved us because we were doing

what we were told. The men in the audience ate it up. It was what they

wanted to hear.

I

imagined that handing us all 'little lamb' outfits to wear would have

been counter-productive to their agenda, though it certainly would have

been more appropriate to how these women viewed the situation. It was

clear to me that all the questions the men in the audience were asking

were scripted. Some had to actually look down at their phones when

reading off their instructions.

Most

adults don't like being treated like six-year olds, so they ignored

this mounting stupidity until Man 10 stood up, was recognized and read

off his question. He was around fifty and clearly in a prosperous

profession, positive he was a member of the winning (female) team.

"Is

it true that at this very moment Congress is voting on increasing the

cycle from 28 days to 14, and abolishing marriage?" he asked.

There

was a hush. By the dumbstruck expression of the woman on stage, this

was not the prepared question. The problem wasn't moving the cycle to 14

days. Men were prepared to knuckle under and do their part for the

Human species. But marriage? Men loved marriage. They didn't love the

idea of finding love, getting married and living happily ever after.

That

was idiotic. No, men loved marriage as our last refuge from a women's

world. Gaining 'attachments' was a warning flag we could wave at other

women, telling them 'hey, we are doing our part, so please, leave us

alone.' Marriage was your shield and armor. It was 'Don't touch. I'm

with somebody!'

The

hope was that if someone did do something to you, your wife would

scream bloody murder and things would get done. She was a woman after

all. Marriage had been preserved in the Gender Inequality Act because

most of the signers were either married or had been recently married and

lost a loved one to the Plague.

I

imagine they thought it was a quaint institution that would gradually

fall to the wayside as society progressed. At the start, it looked that

way. The number of marriages did slowly decline for thirty years, but

about ten years ago, the trend began reversing. When a man is in his

late teens, early and mid-twenties, going out with lots of girls sounds

nice.

Women

pay for everything, they take you to nice places and if you end up in

the three- or four-way occasionally, well, you've got the stamina for

it. When you hit your late twenties and early thirties, men start

slowing down. Pulling a train on a Saturday night, all night, becomes a

burden you could do without.

About

that time, marriage starts looking good. You've probably been in a few

attachments. You pick the one you can live the best with and who has the

best financial status and you keep dropping hints until she realizes

what you really want and she pops the question. Congratulations, you

only have to screw one women for the rest of your life.

Okay,

maybe her sisters, your mother-in-law and her boss, but still, that's

not too bad. Ten years ago, that generation of men who grew up after the

plague were hitting their thirties and they were taking a renewed

interest in the dying institution of marriage. Men got interested, women

got real interested. For women, it meant no more desperate hunting

every weekend.

You

wanted cock? Call your husband, tell him to be home by six and wear

something sexy and it got done. Best of all, you could make that call,

look around your office and see all your female co-workers dripping with

jealousy. If you truly wanted to turn the screws, during that call, you

told your hubby to take some enhancement drugs because you wanted it

deep and hard all night long.

By

this time in our social evolution, men didn't mind being treated like

that too much. We had safety. As married men started to bask in their

safe status, their unmarried brethren began wondering if marriage would

be a good idea for them, too. More took the plunge and most of them were

marrying up social and financially.

As

I keep repeating, women aren't stupid. When rich, successful bankers

began marrying sales clerks and custodians, the social stigma of

marrying beneath your station evaporated in the burning reality that

they had their genetic future waiting at home, willing to do his duty.

The floodgates were open.

More

married men meant fewer men in the fishing pool. That meant greater

pressure on the remaining men, who were now opting into marriage to

relieve that pressure. That meant even greater pressure on the fewer and

fewer remaining men. Last year the marriage rate began its climb toward

30%. From the gender quota point of view, this was a disaster.

To

put that in perspective, that's thirty percent of all men. Then you

have to drop out every male below the age of 16. Then you have to

consider that once men are over 59, they need a yearly physical. If

something is wrong, you get a limited deferment. That means you don't

have to have sex as often.

You

never get to 'not have sex' unless you are on life support, or a rape

victim. There are waiting lists for kidneys, livers and hearts, if you

are a woman. If you are a man, they'll slap an artificial heart in you

if they have to. Men must perform for the general female population,

unless they are married.

Back

to the question at the Arena. Men had been quietly bleating, nodding

our heads, and smiling without real passion until that point. Sudden,

like scenting a wolf for the first time, they were very attentive. If

you were a twenty-something guy, this wasn't 'good.’ If you were a

forty-two year old husband, with a wife, three kids and twelve years of

marital bliss, this was disastrous.

The

government was about to shove you back into the deep end were packs of

starving women were going to devour you because your avoidance skills

were rusty. You were about to be waking up wondering if the pain coming

from your groin was worse than the headache you had from whatever the

hell those women drugged you with.

Oh,

and by the way, you were about to lose your parental rights to your

offspring and most of your shared property. Effectively you were being

forced to divorce. The magnitude of this was amplified by the speaker.

If she had a pat lie handy, she could have defused things because men

wanted comforting words more than unforgiving reality.

But

she stammered. She could have said yes, and that might have been

better. By stammering, she told the men that 'Yes, you are boned, but we

are going to lie to you about it.’ In my opinion, she did the worst

possible thing.

"Next question?"

That

was the equivalent of 'Yes, but you don't deserve to be told about your

fates.’ There was no riot over that. No, it was something far, far

worse. Before that moment, the 20,000 men in the arena thought they were

part of this society. They were deluded into thinking they were equals.

They thought I was a lunatic. Now?

As a group they came to a consensus and it wasn't a pleasant one. 'They think we are sheep, Mother-fuckers!'

This wasn't the crowd that carried dowels this morning but they were

starting to wish they had some now. The shift was subtle. Men had been

sitting back in their seats. Now they were leaning forward.

There

had been polite whispered banter. Now there were grim faces and quiet. I

jumped up and waved my hands around. The communications girl came my

way, was offering me her microphone when she suddenly realized who I

was, I wasn't the man they had reassigned to that seat. She back-pedaled

and another questioner was immediately tapped to speak.

"Let

him speak," the man pointed my way. There was a hush. His comm girl

backed up as well. Another man was found. He started asking his

state-sanctioned question but then the hissing and boos began. The

speaker's response was barely audible over the racket. I jumped up

again. The next man repeated the plea, though it was more insistent now.

"Let him speak!"

I

wasn't sure what they expected me to say. I wanted some sort of redress

to our legal plight, something to defend us against the G E D and the

most egregious insults to our dignity. An arena security guard, neat and

prim in her freshly pressed uniform, moved from the wall nearby and was

clearly coming for me.

The world cracked a little more.

Five men jumped up around me and they looked angry.

"Don't,"

one of them menaced the guard. Cops would have kept coming. It is what

they do, but this was a security guard. She wasn't armed and she

certainly didn't like the mood presented to her.

She

suddenly realized she was down on the floor of the arena, back to a

wall with a sea of angry faces looking her way. She stepped back then

ran, calling for back-up. It was the most horrible thing she could have

done. Two cops were already advancing my way from the front of the

arena. The ripple of the men's successful defiance moved through the

crowd.

The

majority of men kept their seats. They had not come to get in a fight.

They were not rowdy. In fact, they were becoming afraid as most sane

people do when violence approaches. Two patrolwomen came my way. Men

rose as they passed by, but they held firm. Courage was the important

thing. The belief was if they held firm, the men would back down because

they always backed down.

I

saw Officer Passey and her partner as they closed. They didn't have

weapons drawn because they didn't want to spook us. There must have been

sixty men standing around me. I was still standing at my aisle seat and

no men had left their seats to pour into the aisle so the cops had

unimpeded access to me.

"Come with us," Passey beckoned.

"I

haven't done anything wrong," I begged. She grabbed my arm, and then

two men hit her. Passey went down, I heard her partner yelling for

everyone to get back as the males on all sides charged in. A taser went

off then the men were punching and kicking the crap out of the two

women.

The

source of this rage was two-fold. These men had come here completely

wrapped up in the belief that they were equals. These were successful

men with good homes, jobs and lives. They weren't Kenny and Luanga who

worked in a factory. They were professionals and semi-professionals.

They had just been told they were considered nothing but sheep and now

they were being treated like sheep.

The

other factor was the fact they were not the men with dowels this

morning. They'd watched those morons getting plastered, stomped on and

arrested. They didn't admire or even empathize with those men, they held

them in contempt because why on earth would any man be rebelling? It

wasn't that they didn't suffer from the same indignities.

They

did, but they accepted it as normal and went about their days. Smacking

a woman in the head with a stick was stupid. It would accomplish

nothing. This was the mental quandary these men were in. The morons of

this morning had been right in their futile protest and they had been

the fools.

Like

most people, when someone makes a fool of you, you don't say 'Gosh, I'm

foolish.’ No, you get angry with the person who made a fool of you.

They were sheep, they had little lamb bells in the shape of a bracelet

and they'd been fleeced. Those two cops had simply been too vulnerable

to resist.

I

pushed forward, then threw myself on Passey's body, hoping to buy time.

I didn't see her partner. From later footage, I was to learn that five

more policewomen came storming up from the front, tasers out and firing.

Men were dropping, but not fast enough. At that crucial moment when it

seemed those five women might stem the tide, the men discovered

something really bad.

The

floor of the arena was covered with folding chairs which make nice

weapons. Up went the chairs and down went the cops. The majority of the

men in the arena were angry, but weren't as angry as the mob around me.

Cops were pouring in from every exit so the men did what came naturally,

they tried to get out.

No

catastrophe is one mistake. Men were panicking and trying to get out. A

stampede could prove fatal to the crowd of men. The police had to

restore order. They also wanted to capture and punish the men

responsible. The commander on the scene ordered the police to hold the

exits until the riot was dealt with. The policewomen were polite but

firm.

The

men responded like good little frightened sheep and obeyed, though they

were clearly nervous. Around me, the men saw a wall of ten riot police

coming from the front, backed up by a small group of normal policewomen.

Riot cops had knee-to-shoulder length transparent shields and stun

batons. This was the kind of thing they had trained for. They were not

afraid.

The

men also discovered they had seven pistols, things got worse. A few got

some shots off before they were stunned into unconsciousness. Others

couldn't even figure out how to work the safety. The police wall pushed

forward, they were recovering the bodies of their fallen co-workers then

they finally got to me.

The

policewoman saw me on all fours over a semi-coherent Passey and swung

her stun baton. I raised my arm to defend myself and a sharp shock burnt

through my arm, but didn't knock me out. At that moment, the riot squad

became a victim of its own success. Having pushed so far forward, they

presented an avenue of egress for the panicking men on their side of the

arena.

The

human wave shattered the police cohesion. It became a desperate fight,

everyone for themselves. The riot cops went down under the surge of

bodies. For a second, the area around me cleared up. I saw Passey's

partner. She looked to be in a bad way, but I didn't know her. I knew

Passey. I was still ordering my jumbled thoughts when the bomb went off.

It

had been suspended over the arena floor, disguised as sound equipment.

The blast wave was focused down into the audience. The concussion

knocked people down, but that was the only direct effect. The designers

of the bomb weren't looking to create casualties on the floor, oh no.

They were looking to spread chaos, confusion and fear.

They

did that admirably. That thin blue line holding those 20,000 men at

bay? They were still trying to figure out what the explosion was when

the men surged forward once more. They yelled at the men to stop. Their

hands went to their tasers. Most likely, the men facing the cops tried

to stop, but with hundreds of men behind them urgently trying to get

away from the explosion, it was a hopeless gesture.

Police

escalation was simple: command, taser, physical takedown, and pistol.

Most of the policewomen never got to the takedown phase. A few went

straight for the pistol phase. Shots began ringing out. Police

communications were overwhelmed with calls for orders, or help. At the

main exit's long series of doors it got even worse.

A

police lieutenant was trying to bring order out of the chaos. She could

make out what was being said by a subordinate in another part of the

arena.

"Shots fired? I repeat, shots fired?" she requested over her link. That's not what a man a few meters away heard.

"Oh

my God! They are going to shoot us just like China!" he screamed. He

wasn't rational, but a bomb had gone off, another one might go off and

the cops weren't letting him leave. The rational thought should have

been 'I'm too valuable to be slaughtered,' but he was gripped by fear.

"They are going to kill us all!" he continued.

The

closest police officer tased him. That was normal procedure; the man

was starting a panic. Unfortunately, there was already a panic, the man

was claiming the cops were trying to kill him, and the cops had just

proved him right. He wasn't dead, or even unconscious, but the men

didn't know that. They attacked.

Men

tend to be taller, heavier and have superior reach. The policewomen had

training, weapons, body armor and morale, they were policewomen facing

men after all. The deciding factor was weight of numbers, quite

literally. The men rolled forward like a wave. The front men were

tasered, but couldn't fall down in the press of bodies.

There

was no way the women could hold back five, six, or even seven men

pushing against each one of them. Realizing the women at the first exits

were being pummeled to death, the supporting police went straight for

their guns. Had the men had some sort of organization, the hail of

bullets might have stopped them. The men were a stampede.

Men

fell and were trampled into mush. The women? They were savagely beaten

to death for the most part. Some were literally torn to pieces. The men

slammed into the glass doors and walls. The material was tough. It bent

and bowed before finally popping out of its fixtures. The men cascaded

into the city's last line of defense.

It

was a police auxiliary riot unit. These women had 'day jobs' but served

in uniform on special occasions, like this. What was coming at them

wasn't something they were mentally prepared for. Still, they were in

full riot gear, with each flank secured by a water cannon. The unit's

sergeant had a horrid dilemma.

Over

her comm, she could hear wounded officers crying out for assistance. A

SWAT unit on the second level was in dire need and running out of

ammunition. For once, men had the numbers in this cruel twist of fate,

plus, they had and were using guns. An equine unit had snapped under the

pressure on the north side of the arena and been overrun.

The

water cannons began working over the men. That stopped them,

momentarily. It was deceptive because the pressure behind the men was

building up, but the police couldn't see it. Seeing the mob recoil, the

sergeant acted. She ordered her command forward at a steady pace. They

were going to rescue their fellow officers.

Things

began to fall apart from the start. As the cannons both swung to the

center of the riot squads' entry point, a man slipped around the edge of

the water stream. His name was Robert White, African-American and

worked at a modeling agency as a manager. He had two attachments and

four healthy daughters. He was thirty-two and he was dying.

In

the playback, it was clear that he was gut-shot. Had he made it to an

emergency room in the next thirty minutes he might have lived. His dress

jacket was gone. His dress white shirt was water-soaked and blood

stained from his wound. He also had a shotgun and a preference for

action movies so he had a clue how one worked.

Robert

sprinted around the periphery of the riot line, jumped on the front of

the first water cannon and fired the shotgun through the vision port the

driver left open. Three shots later, the crew inside was dead or

wounded and the cannon shut down. While Robert was becoming a martyr for

all man-kind, the riot squad was falling apart.

As

the sergeant urged her troops forward, the individual women were coming

to the realization that their cork was too small for the hole they were

expected to fill. The dimensions of the mass of men coming their way

made the power of the stun batons in their hands feel irrelevant. You

could see the reasonable fear in their eyes turn to terror. They knew

they were about to die.

Even

then, not one woman didn't go forward. The problem was some went more

forward than others. The Plexiglas shield wall fractured. The sergeant

tried to reorganize her people, the water cannon on her right shut off

and she committed a totally rational sin. She looked over her shoulder

to see what had happened. She wasn't the only woman in her command to do

that.

The

man charged forward with a hellish howl. The auxiliary policewomen

cringed and hunched up, but none of them ran. They held their ground as

best they could. Their doom was in their sergeant's decision to advance.

The riot squad's flanks were open and the men come pouring around at

both ends.

The

second water cannon thrashed the area around it, trying to buy time for

the women on the outside. Within their armored vehicle, the patrolwomen

thought they were safe. Of course, the women inside the first water

cannon had thought the same thing. Re-enter the doomed Robert White. He

had run around the far side of the first water cannon and to the back of

the second.

Something

whizzed pasted his thigh and ricocheted off the pavement. Sure enough,

the crew had left a back viewport open. They weren't following protocol,

but they weren't stupid either. With the ports open, the vehicle was

much cooler in this early summer heat. Besides, men didn't have guns, so

what was the problem.

Robert

White stuck the barrel into the port and fired. As he got a second shot

off, something tore off a section of his calf and he fell. Unrelenting,

he stood back up, felt something burn across his thigh, but still

managed to get off a third shot. He was pumping the next shell in when

the sniper finally stopped following fire protocol for men and put a

round into Robert White's heart.

It

was already too late for the auxiliary policewomen before the second

water cannon went still. The initial rush of men pushed in their flanks

and a secondary surge shattered their middle. A smaller, right-most

faction, tried to form a circle, but fell and were overwhelmed. The left

most, with their sergeant, formed a defensive ring only to be taken

down by the stun batons of their fallen comrades.

This was the moment when that first sniper and two more who had rushed to join her decided that 'fuck it,

they must pay' and opened fire on the mob. That was the last hurrah.

The men broke up and scattered, which was pretty much what they had

wanted to do all along. The blood lust was dissipating.

As

one final, sad footnote, the sniper watched a lone, battered man

walking among the bodies. A member of the riot squad, clearly in a bad

way, made a weak attempt to touch him. He stopped and knelt by her. They

exchanged words. For a second, the sniper felt remorse for opening fire

on all those men then the kneeling man pulled out a pistol, pressed it

to the policewoman's forehead and blew her brains out.

As

the man stood up, the sniper returned the favor. As unaccustomed to

true violence as men were, some snapped. Maybe he was a gentle soul who

saw too much, too fast. Maybe he dreamed of striking back for years and

was overcome with the prospects of achieving his fantasy. Maybe he was a

bastard. Whatever he was, he was erased from the human equation like

nearly a thousand of his brethren that night.

Back

inside, I was in a battle for survival of a different kind. I pulled

myself off Passey after the explosion. Men were scattering in all

directions. A few cops pulled themselves from a floor littered with

bodies, male and female. I went over to Passey's partner. I knew

jack-all about first aid, but she was clearly not doing well.

I looked up to see a cop pointing a gun at my head.

"She

needs help," I told the barrel of the gun. "I don't think we should

move her." The gun moved up and away. She spent a few seconds trying to

contact various people unsuccessfully. "I'm going to move my friend,

Officer Passey, to the EMTs and I can send back help when I do," I

offered.

The cop studied me.

"Where do you know Passey from?" she asked.

"We met at City Hall. She told me about her son," I replied.

"Take her that way," the cop pointed. "Stick around. People will want to talk with you, Mr. Jensen."

"I

can't promise you that," I responded. She glared then nodded. She began

moving off in a hurry. War was being waged against my gender. I scooped

up Passey and headed off in the direction the policewoman had

indicated. I began to hear gunfire. I hurried along. I was around the

stage and running down a tunnel when I saw three parked ambulances, half

a dozen cops and an even more EMTs.

The cops regarded me with a great deal of suspicion.

"Officers

down, several around row 23," I explained. Then the echoes of automatic

weapons fire reached us. I wouldn't normally be privileged to hear

police chatter but the EMTs had turned their radios to it to keep pace

with events.

Whole

units were going down. A SWAT unit had been jumped in mid-deployment

and opened fire after taking fire from men using captured police

weapons. A riot squad had used tear gas to break up a knot of men only

to have the fire suppression system cut on, reducing visibility to less

than a meter.

What

I didn't know about the group dynamic around me was that the V I Ps had

already raced down here and fled the scene in the limos and S U Vs. The

V I Ps they could do without, but the twenty members of the Executive

Protection Detail that they'd taken with them were urgently needed here,

at the arena. The cops were pissed, but not with me, with their own

gender.

The five cops looked at their Section Leader. She bit her lip.

"Shotguns

and gas masks," she barked her orders. "We are going in." The cops

raced to obey while the SL called her superior to inform her of their

team's intentions. I wasn't sure if she got permission. I handed off

Passey gingerly to the first team of EMTs to come at me.

"You

might want to assign an officer to the EMTs," I suggested obsequiously

to the SL. She looked like she wanted to rip my limbs off. "A good

number of men were worked over with stun batons and things could go

badly if the EMTs don't have a minder. The girl across from my condo is

an EMT," I offered up as an explanation.

"Polanski,

stick with the paramedics. There may be some pissed of males on the

ground," the Section Leader called out. "Don't go anywhere," she told

me.

"Yes ma'am," I replied. She led her troops off toward the arena floor. The second she was out of sight, I jogged the other way.

I

broke out into the fresh air, the wail of sirens, the clap of gunfire

and the screams of men. Some men were trying to get to their cars and

drive away, those privileged few. The cops were already closing of the

arena parking exits, so I wasn't sure what they were thinking, if they

were thinking at all.

My

path cut across the greenway and toward the metro. I wasn't taking the

subway, I was walking along the tracks in an effort to make my getaway. I

decided to get rid of my phone then realized I hadn't activated it yet.

My phone didn't know it was working for me and neither did anyone else.

As

a phone it was worthless but as a media device, it serviced me just

fine. Once I made it to the subway tunnels, I took stock of my

situation. Where was I going to go? Home? Most likely bad for me and bad

for everyone I cared about. My arm still throbbed where the cop hit me

with her stun baton but was functional.

My

bracelet looked none the worse for wear despite taking the brunt of the

impact and shock. I didn't want to sit uselessly by while the Vanishers

or Dimples' people picked me up. I had to do something, but I didn't

know what. The sane, rational decision was to hunker down somewhere and

let someone I liked find me. Insanity sucks.

I

went through some convolution to get a pre-paid phone card. Two college

girls and not 'actual' sex. A half-dozen calls later, Capri knew I was

still alive, she told me Angel was okay and worried about me, and I was

headed into what may have been the worst decision of my life. I was

drawn to it because I need to do more than live, I wanted to scream at

the Void that I was alive.

Getting

in was stunningly easy, there were bodies everywhere, cops and males. I

was given a few quick looks, but the staff were busy and the cops were

still stunned. A male nurse came into my perception.

"Hey, I'm looking for an Officer Passey," I grabbed his arm. "Can you tell me where she is?"

He looked up angrily. I was about to be told where I could shove it when the realization of who I was crossed his face.

"I

brought her out of the arena and I need to tell her something," I

added. He was weighing all kinds of factors before he decided in my

favor.

"Bay

2-E," he told me then hurried off to the job that needed him. There

were cops and guys stacked up all over the place. Doctors and nurses

were doing triage. I could sense the low level hostility the police were

showing the male nurses and doctor (just one so far). As I pulled the

curtain aside at 2-E, Passey was putting her shirt back on.

"Excuse me?" a female nurse challenged me.

"Israel?" Passey muttered. Her head and ribs were bandaged and she looked a little off.

"Israel Jensen?" the nurse confirmed. "Listen up asshole, this is all,”

"Wait,"

Passey patted the nurse. "He saved my life tonight. He jumped on top of

me so that the other men didn't kick me to death."

The

nurse went back to studying me. That was most likely the last thing she

expected a cop to say about me. She didn't understand that it was the

culture and not the people I hated.

"What

do you want, Israel?" Passey asked. "If they find you here, they are

going to take you away." By that she meant her fellow cops.

"I have three questions I need to ask you," I began. Yes, it was a need, not a want. Passey nodded.

"Do you still breast feed?" I inquired. Passey nodded. The nurse looked angry.

"Do you want me to save your Son?" was my second question.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Are you willing to have sex with me?" was the final one.

"Yes," she whispered again.

"Is she healthy enough for sex?" I turned to the nurse.

"She

has some bruised ribs and a concussion," the nurse said. "Are you

serious about this? You are just going to come in and screw her, in her

state?"

"I don't know how much time I'll be around," I answered. "Once I'm gone, nothing and no one will save her little boy."

Passey

removed her shirt. I tossed my jacket on some medical device and

quickly worked off mine. Passey was struggling with her shoes so I bent

down and took them off for her.

"I must look a mess," she worried. I looked up at her.

"You are beautiful. You are a Mother and there are few things more wonderful," I said.

I

stood and took off my shirt. The nurse softened slightly. She knew the

pain I had to be in. The thing was, I was feeling better.

"Aren't

we the pair, Raggedy Man?" Passey whispered. We both had heavily

bruised torsos. I had no clue why she was calling me Raggedy Man.

Our pants and underwear piled up on the floor. The nurse had slipped out somewhere along the line.

"I wish I could give you more time," I sighed as I pulled Passey to me until our bodies were tightly pressed.

"You

are giving us what precious time you can, Israel," she responded. I

cupped her ass cheeks and placed her on the edge of the gurney. Slipping

into her was like teardrops on my soul, honest and purifying. Passey

gave a little gasp then tenderly wrapped me up in her arms. We gently

rocked back and forth, her sitting on the gurney, I standing in front of

her, her legs supported my arms at hip level.

It

was painful sex for both of us. I was helped by the fact that the

normally gorgeous Officer Passey was so battered. It was the whole

beautiful = entitlement thing rearing its ugly head.

"What's your name?" I mused, not really thinking about our circumstance. Passey giggled then winced.

"Freya," she panted in my ear. "My name is Freya."

"That's beautiful," I murmured. "That was a Goddess, right?"

"Was? Is," she nuzzled me. "My family are Pantheists, pagans."

"Would that make me Frey?" I stumbled along verbally.

"No,"

she snickered then began kissing my neck. "Frey is Freya's brother.

That would be a little weird. You are more like, Baldur, the Golden

One." Our banter had a purpose. We were dispelling the desperation of

the moment. We were foolishly shredding the tyranny of time. We could

take as long as we wanted because we lied and said everything was going

to work out.

For

some indeterminate time, we simply rocked back and forth. I could feel

her fire rising toward the point of combustion. What I had to do next

went against my nature. It went against the dark, gnawing fear that

lurked behind the reflection of every woman whose gaze I met and stalked

the edges of my erotic nightmares.

"Tell

me you love me," I breathed into her. "Tell me we are going to have

many strong male babies together." I wanted to die. Freya Passey

hesitated a moment as if she knew she was about to cause me great pain.

"I love you, Israel," she murmured. "We are going to have many strong male babies together."

My whole body shook violently. I felt my testes contract. I was terrified, but I had to live.

"Say it again," I sobbed.

"Israel?" Freya whimpered.

"Please," I gulped.

"I love you, Israel," she sniffled. "We are going to have many strong male babies together."

The

fear tore my heart and reason apart. My cum fountained deep within

Freya. Again and again, it shot forth. Freya tensed then climaxed, which

was doubly painful for both of us.

'Take that, Aurora, you bitch,' my mind spasmed and whirled manically.

'I

stole one life back. I made something good from the madness you gifted

me with. You haven't won, not yet.' I'd been climbing out of that

basement for nearly five years. I was almost free until Bethany kicked

my back down into that pit again. Maybe this was why I had lived? Maybe I

hadn't been stupid or weak for surviving when I should have died.

Maybe, please God, maybe, my life had purpose.

"After

the death of my first child," Freya hiccupped. Her arms and legs were

still wrapped around me. "I didn't know if I could stand to lose

another." She didn't say 'son' and the fact that she didn't make that

distinction confirmed in my soul I'd taken a worthwhile risk.

"I

can't imagine what it has been like for you," I told Passey. "I was

never informed of the birth of my children. I never knew the fear that

they might not make it."

"Yet you saved me from that feeling of hopelessness," Freya breathed into my chest.

"I

did it for me," I replied softly. "I don't know the world, so I can let

it go, but I knew you and I don't want to be the kind of human who sees

a fellow human in need and does nothing."

"You were that man before you came here," she said.

"I

have been rendered worthless, Freya," I struggled for my own

understanding. "Because of that I will probably never be comfortable

believing I'm worthwhile. I'll have to prove it to myself again and

again. I doubt I'll ever accept that I'm the man I should be, or can be.

Consider it a flaw in my lenses of perfection."

"You

have a way with words," she smiled. "You need to go." We dressed

quickly. I wiped up some escaping semen with a piece of gauze which I

then pocketed.

"Don't share that if you can get away with it," I requested.

"Which

reminds me," Passey pulled out her phone and scanned me, and scanned me

again. "Your bracelet isn't acknowledging my scan."

"Maybe you're special," I hoped.

"I think it is broken," she clarified.

"Perfect,"

I sighed. "Just perfect." That explained why the Vanishers and the FBI

weren't all over my ass right now. I had no phone and my bracelet wasn't

betraying my location.

The

foul little stooge that had haunted my life since I was sixteen was

dead. Had it actually broken and fallen off, I would have danced on its

grave. To be fair, its diehard little capacitors must have soaked up the

brunt of the stun baton's power before the beast croaked. We finished

getting dressed, I kissed Passey good-bye and pulled open the screen.

There

was a wall of cops staring at us. On the periphery were those jokers in

white coats over scrubs with all kinds of collection gear. Oh hell no. I

wasn't going to pee in a cup. I certainly wasn't going to jack off into

one. I stifled the urge to scream. I followed that minor victory by not

shutting the curtain, crawling into a corner and hoping the world would

go away.

"Mr. Jensen, you are coming with us," the lead officer, a lieutenant named Metzer said.

"Lieutenant,

I'm begging you, give me two minutes of your time. If you still want to

drag me in, I'll go quietly and without complaint," I pleaded. "Please,

I'm begging you."

"He came here of his own free will," Freya spoke up, "knowing what might happen to him."

There

was no reason tell them what I had done here. Neither Freya nor I were

terribly quiet. The officer blinked. She was clearly stressed and

unhappy.

"Speak."

"The cure I have in my system will not help anyone here, besides Passey," I started off quickly.

"That

isn't how it works. Only my body produces the antivirals. None of my

twenty three children, boys and girls, produce it. It is only me and as

you might guess, there simply isn't enough of me to go around. You can

imprison me unjustly and milk me like a cow and you'll get a few

thousand doses a year."

"Sadly,

each dose will be less effective than the last. Stress breaks down the

antivirals. Even then, at best the antiviral will only last two years

before you need another dose. If they take me, where do the rest of you

stack up with the 100 million women in the Federation? When do you think

you will be getting your dose?"

"What I have will not save you," I repeated. "Given any free will, I will not help any of you."

"You helped Officer Passey here," Metzer pointed out.

"Which

is the best hope you have. Despite being raped and imprisoned by a cop,

gang-raped then having law enforcement laugh me out of the office,

being driving to Isobel Diaz's party by a cop so I could be raped yet

again,”

"Are

you getting the picture? I have no reason to help any woman whatsoever.

You have been the bane of my existence since I was sixteen," I huffed.

The look the cops were giving me wasn't one of sympathy. It was

wonderment that I'd been allowed to babble for so long. "Why should you

let me go?"

"Because

I love Detective Angel Kristi. I'm truly enamored with Kuiko Sano and

Capri O'Hara. I like Aniqua, Venus, Samantha and Roni. I think Francesca

Silverhorn walks on freaking water. I'm erotically drawn to a warrior

named Zara and a psycho I call Flame. I have every fucking reason to hate every woman who has ever lived, but I don't."

"I've

pulled love out of hate. I have forgiven a few of you for your

indifference to my suffering. In time, I may forgive others and do what I

can. I will never have that chance if you take me away now. The Human

Race will never have that chance. Lieutenant, I'm not asking you to save

everyone. I'm asking you to save one person, me," I finished.

"What are you going to do if you I let you leave?" Metzer asked.

"I

haven't a clue. I didn't come here with a plan or a schedule. I

couldn't let her child die while I could do something. It is that

simple. If you let me leave, I'm most likely going to walk around a bit

and think. I didn't ask for this and it isn't my birthright. I was a lab

rat and I should have died."

"I

didn't, so I have to go on," I told her. Worst 'let me go' speech ever.

My lecturers at Bowden would have tossed me out on my head.

"Clear a way out," Metzer commanded.

"Ma'am?" a senior officer questioned.

"He's

not charged with anything," Lt. Metzer stated. "Until the possession of

Magic Sperm becomes a crime, detaining him would be illegal."

Thankfully, Passey kept her mouth shut about my bracelet. They could hold me for that.

"Lieutenant, Mr. Jensen," one of the doctors stepped up. "If we could have a blood sample to verify Doctor Vasco's findings."

"I need to walk and clear my head," I evaded. "Let me think about it."

I

was out of that emergency room as fast as decorum would allow. Not only

was my mind teetering, my body was coming down from the rush of

adrenaline followed by the exhaustion of a twenty minute sex session. In

the parking lot, a black racing bike pulled up. The owner had on black

leather from neck to toe with a black helmet hiding her features.

As

I went to climb on, she handed me a helmet. Her size was an indicator

but as the bike rocketed away, the sensation I received when I hugged

her tightly gave her away. She sped off into parts of the city I was

unfamiliar with before ending up at the unfinished expanses of an

elevated highway, one of the Mayor's pet projects.

I

dismounted, handed off my helmet then walked over to the unfinished

edge. I sat down, letting my feet dangle off into the darkness. I

guesstimated we were 20 meters up. I'm not an engineer, architect or

surveyor so what did I know. Flame took off her helmet and followed

behind me. She pulled out her pistol and chambered a round.

"How did you find me?" I wondered.

"Cops talk on their radios too much," she enlightened me. I turned my body so I could look at her. She aimed that huge fucking

hand cannon my way. Looking down the barrel was definitely worse than

trying to hold the damn thing. She slowly started smiling.

"This is where you start begging," she smirked.

"I

want to live, but, I can't think of a convincing argument not to

shoot," I confessed. Flame spun around, dancing with her arms

outstretched.

"Come on, give me something," she laughed.

"Well,

I'm glad you survived the shootout," I mused. "I wasn't sure at the

time if I cared one way or the other. After thinking about it a bit, I

think I'd be, less if you died."

"Less'?" she stopped spinning to regard me intensely. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"I really can't claim what I said was a rational statement," I answered.

"That makes even less sense," exulted happily, fucking psycho. "Are you trying to be crazier than me?"

"What?

I am crazier than you," I declared. Flame looked skeptical. "Would you

go out on an uncompleted bridge with yourself while unarmed? Bitch, I

got you beat hands down."

"You're

right," she concluded. "I hate people who are right about me." She

aimed again. I stared. She looked trapped between bottled rage and

something she couldn't identify. "What have you done to me?" she asked

as she lowered the gun. "I think you are fucking with my mind, mesmerizing me somehow."

"People

don't mesmerize other people," I told her. "Look at it this way;

leaders don't take control, followers surrender it. They surrender it

because the sane thing to do is live and the leader convinces you that

the best life you can hope for is with them. The sane person can always

chose to die instead, it is just very hard to do. I'm not doing anything

to you, Flame," I explained, "beyond liking you for reasons I don't

feel like grappling with right now. I'm certainly not offering you a

better life in any way, shape, or form."

"But I like killing," Flame declared. "I'd like to kill you."

"Killing isn't so much. Death is inevitable for us all. Since we all die, why not try to make our deaths worthwhile?" I mused.

"Worthwhile," Flame scoffed. "Like saving people? Sparing your life?"

"Bitch," I chuckled, "you know me better than that."

"Killing is hastening the inevitable. Saving a life is holding death back for another few seconds, a 'fuck you' to the Universe. It changes things," I said.

"Killing people changes things too," Flame laughed. "I'd rather serve Death."

"There is no serving Death because Death doesn't need you. Death is going to win no matter what," I pointed out.

"Even

if killing someone buys you a few more seconds, minutes, hours or days,

Death will always come back for you because it is friendless and

remorseless. It always wins in the end," I related. Flame stared at me.

She raised the gun, staring down the barrel at me. She let it drop,

raised it again then finally lowered it.

"That's

why you fight," she whispered. "You are defying Death, trying to make a

difference. You've seen people die, most likely horribly, so you know

what death looks like. When you look into my eyes, you don't see Death,

you see me."

"I think I do," I nodded.

"I like you. I never had a boyfriend before," Flame enlightened me.

"We are not boyfriend or girlfriend. I'm not a cheater," I responded.

"Pish,"

Flame chuckled. "Not like that, dipshit. I mean me 'liking' somebody. I

can't remember liking anyone before. Sure, I tolerate Little M and,

Davia, but this is different."

"My

whole life I've always wanted to kill people. To me it is like

breathing. It's what I want to do. I don't give a shit if someone

deserves it. I want them to die. I've always felt that way, until now. I

don't feel the overwhelming desire to kill you. I can't say I

understand it, it is so alien to me," Flame murmured.

After several minutes,

"You going to leave now?" she asked.

"Nah.

I've got nowhere to go really," I shrugged. Flame came over, sat down

next to me at the edge of the bridge and dangled her feet off into the

dark.

"Going to beg me not to kill you?" she continued.

"Not really thinking about it actually," I grinned at her.

"Want me to go out and start saving lives?" she teased.

"I'm

happy where you are right now," I bumped her shoulder with my own.

"Unless you want to go and play Good Samaritan, then go knock yourself

out."

"Are we friends, Israel?" Flame inquired as she rested her head on my shoulder.

"I guess so. Despite my traumatized background and your violent nature, I'm willing to accept we can get along," I reasoned.

"Are you going to beg for your life now?" she snickered.

"Bitch, were you not breastfed as a child?" I retorted.

"Not

much; I choked out my mom when she tried to burp me," Flame laughed

hysterically. We'd been down this road while she was punching and

kicking the crap out of me at Isobel's party.

"What do we do now?" Flame wondered out loud to the night sky above.

"You could always give me a parachute then shove me off the bridge," I suggested.

"There is no way,” she began giggling as she got the joke, "it would open in time."

"It's the false hope that often keeps us going," I pointed out.

"Do you want me to get you a gun?" Flame asked me as we rocked side to side at the edge of a long fall to a messy death.

"Well,

I wouldn't mind some lessons and a pistol that doesn't threaten to

blast me back to the 20th century," I stated. "A few guns for my lady

posse wouldn't suck either."

"I'll

see what I can do," Flame sighed happily. "You know, if I let you get

away, you die and I didn't kill you myself, I'll never get over it,"

Flame mused. "I want to spend time with you too. It doesn't make sense.

It's a,”

"Conundrum?" I offered up the word.

"Yeah,

conundrum. Good word, Beatrix Potter," she snickered. "See, when you do

shit like that, I don't get angry. You aren't trying to get one up on

me, make me look stupid just because I didn't get much schooling."

"I'm

not. Survival is a much under-appreciated art these days but that's

about to change, Flame," I confided. "You are a survivor."

Flame tilted to the side, turned her torso and looked into my eyes.

"That's

it. You are nice to me and not in a way that says you want to screw me,

or 'begging me to let you live' sort of way. You are just fucking nice to me and I don't get it," Flame seemed truly confused.

"I'll

give it a go. No one understands us. When we walk into a room, no one

knows what's going on behind our eyes. You and I are totally different

in what we are going through, but in that total separation from our

peers, we are alone. I guess that is what I meant when I called you

pure. You are pure in your thoughts. There is no confusion," I pieced

things together.

"But you confuse me," Flame pointed out.

"And you don't think you confuse me? Ha, I should be running the fuck away

from you every chance I get. For a guy who claims to not be a

masochist, I certainly have a lot of violent women in my life," I

chortled.

"Hmm”

she then paused. "Want to have sex?" This may have been the first time

Flame had actually asked a man that. I imagined she normally took it.

"Sorry, I never have sex with a woman whose clit is bigger than my cock," I teased.

"Bitch!" she wacked me with her gun while she giggled and swinging her legs back and forth.

"Woman,

don't make me come over there and make you beat me up with that

flyswatter of yours," I teased. Nothing was said for a while. She

snuggled back to me. Outside our little world, sirens blared while the

city lights turned the night sky into a dirty, charcoal-colored haze. In

that tiny segment of time, we were both comfortable in our skins.

Eventually Flame found the silence unbearable. "What is it like to be tortured?" Flame inquired.

"Different tortures do different things," I tried to explain.

"Some

things are so painful that the pain is all you recall. The phantom of

that agony carries on long after the act is done. Other tortures are

humiliating. They erode your understanding of the world. You lose your

perception of the peripherals, collapsing into your core values even as

those crumble apart."

"Finally,

there are those thing that seem good, but are actually bad, sexual

torture. They wreck you emotionally and leave your body's responses

cross-wired. All of those break down your mental picture of yourself,

chip you away until you are some creature you don't recognize, but

that's the person you now have to live with," I sighed.

"I'd rather die," she punched me very lightly.

"It

is never that easy," I explained. "Keeping you alive is part of the

torture. Making you want to die then stealing even that hope from you."

"If I was about to be captured, would you kill me?" Flame prodded.

"Yeah," I nodded.

"Bitch, why?"

"I

couldn't deal with looking in your eyes and not seeing that madness

there, a purely selfish reason," I confided. There was a long silence.

"That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me, and meant it," Flame breathed deeply.

"I wouldn't want to do it. I don't consider myself a killer," I sighed, "but I'm the only friend you've got."

"That's the damn truth," she snickered.

"I'm sure Davia would shoot me, but I think it is because she wants to be sure I'm dead," Flame giggled.

"Davia? Do you mean your partner? I call her Silent and I really didn't want to know her real name," I groaned.

"Why's that?" Flame asked.

"Take

it easy, Lady and Gentleman," a soft female voice called out behind us.

"No sudden moves." I looked to Flame. She was giving me a toothy smile

and pumping her eyebrows. I raised my hands, slowly.

To be continued

By FinalStand for Literotica