Winter Kill

By Sam Fluharty

Angel Vierra always thought that Detroit was the Murder Capitol. He solved scores of them there. Now, as an investigator for the Michigan State Police, he has discovered that the rural and resort areas of the state produce a heap of horrific homicides.

A vicious vengeance double draws him to the scenic Thumb, where he meets a young deputy, Hannah Bellemer, who could be a supermodel. They team up to solve the case, but it leaves a bad taste in Angel's mouth.

He is called back to investigate a string of eight perfect murders that occur once every winter. Hannah finds the serial killer, but that's only the beginning.

Angel Vierra is Lucas Davenport, Harry Bosch, Billy Graves, and of course, Sam Fluharty. Don't doubt him!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514473092

Sam Fluharty

Sam Fluharty flew a gunship in Vietnam and earned the DFC for Valor and the Purple Heart. He has made and squandered several fortunes in four diverse careers. Sam says, Ive always had a paperback in my jeans, flight suit, briefcase or on my Kindle, and a novel like Rite of Revenge in the back of my brain planning its escape. Mason Foxx is Archie Goodwin, Travis McGee, Lucas Davenport and of course, Sam Fluharty. Youll be pulling for him.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Sam Fluharty.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016903759

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5144-7311-5

                Softcover        978-1-5144-7310-8

            eBook           978-1-5144-7309-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 04/07/2016

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CONTENTS

PART ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

PART TWO

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty Two

Chapter Forty Three

Chapter Forty Four

Chapter Forty Five

Chapter Forty Six

Chapter Forty Seven

Chapter Forty Eight

OTHER TITLES BY SAM FLUHARTY

Rite of Revenge

The Seal and The Rose

The Bloody Incubus - An Angel Vierra Mystery

Two Profound Truths

Forgive us of our sins, as we forgive those who have sinned against us.

Jesus Christ

Luke 11:4 (NIV)

Neither superior size and strength, nor greater expertise and experience in the martial arts, even if all advantages are pressed, will guarantee success in a truly desperate fight. The survivor of such a contest will be the combatant possessing the stronger will: one who is able to suppressed our natural compassion and sense of fair play for the sole purpose of inflicting extreme pain—without hesitation or restraint—on the adversary; and who is simultaneously capable of enduring severe pain, if only for seconds longer than the adversary.

Mason Foxx

The Desperate Fight

PART ONE

Sheridan

2015

CHAPTER ONE

T he stench is what brought her out of unconsciousness. Before her brain registered the pain, her gut erupted with sour vomit of the beer and pizza dinner that Ryan had so graciously treated her to. She rolled over on her left side and retched herself empty. It was only then that she felt the raging ragged pain in her loins and rectum. She wasted no time wondering what had happened, because she knew. Her survival instincts restrained her urge to scream and to concentrate on her present situa tion.

A calm, clear voice surprised her. It’s quiet…very still. They’re gone. The voice was her own. She rolled out of the filth.

Comprehending what it was and what had caused it, she dry heaved violently. When she opened her eyes, she made out the faux buckskin of her revealing squaw costume hanging over the cushion of the shiny naugahyde couch. She crawled up on it and was exhilarated to see that they had not taken her purse, moccasins and dress. The tough little ranch kid stood unsteadily and was again thankful that she seemed to be alone in the double wide.

After collecting her outfit and purse, she made her way to the bathroom and locked the door. The two animals had each showered before they left. The room was still hot and steamy. Her blue-eyed blond image in the mirror over the sink was thankfully air-brushed by the steam. Her rapists had used all the hot water, but she did not care.

As the tepid stream splashed over her full figure, she wondered if she would ever be clean again. She looked down at the drain that was clogging with a brown reddish glop. She let the water continue to run as she guided her petite gymnast’s body gracefully out of the tub, then extended her left foot under the shower’s stream. She stepped onto a wet towel and did the same with the other foot.

As she was about to turn the water off, the stench and memory of what had been done to her became all too clear. She screamed in anguished disbelief at the immensity of the betrayal. The cold shower had cleared the mirror. She chose not to look. She wore no bra, underwear or panty hose, so, it took less than thirty seconds to slip into her dress and moccasins. She cursed that she had chosen the outfit to accentuate her statuesque figure. She could imagine a defense attorney sneering that she had provoked the attack.

The perverse thought short circuited her rationality and she raced recklessly out of the mobile home, slamming the door behind her. She vowed, There will be no trial…but there will be punishment!

The normally unflappable MBA fumbled with the ignition key, cranked the Lexus’ engine and jammed the shift into reverse. Her mind and vision became clear and she gently pushed the brake pedal. She lowered the windows and listened. The warm humid night felt welcome after the cold shower. The dashboard clock read 2:41.

The striking twenty-seven year old professional gazed at the white vinyl of the new mobile home that sat in a neat row of twenty exact replicas bracketed by rows of an equal number. They had sprouted in a wheat field within the last year and rented for $3,000 per month. The units were sparsely furnished with utilitarian man-cave furniture, including a 48-inch plasma screen bolted to the wall, and Wi-Fi. Ryan had kept the place clean and neat but had added nothing personal to the place. In the asphalt parking slots of each were either beat-up old pick-ups of the newly arrived, new loaded SUVs and F-150s or, in some cases, Mustangs and Corvettes of those who had been working for a year or more. Most of the tenants were rough necks who earned six figures in the shale, or support staff who earned almost as much in offices, retail or victimless crime. Eight of her own clients rented in this tract. They had all come to the boom towns of her home of North Dakota.

She pulled up back into the parking space of Ryan’s double wide. When she cut the engine, she listened intently. It was a week night, so all of the residents of this development would be on the down side of their slumber. She took out a Marlboro Lite and lit it. Closing her eyes, she took in a deep drag and exhaled.

A temperate night breeze blew away the smoke as well as the absolute disbelief that this had happened to her. She laughed, I only smoke when I’m with Ryan because he says it looks sexy on me. The nicotine further calmed her. The pain jerked her back into reality.

They had been together for six months. She choked out a rueful laugh, I met him at church! She stifled an incredulous scream, We’d actually talked about marriage! She shuddered as the memory of the hairy brute crushing her onto Ryan as his donkey dick bulldozed between her heart-shaped buttocks. Ryan had told her that he loved her on top. He called her, the superior female. They had become mutually satisfying comfortable lovers over the past five months.

The conservative, comparatively prudish woman had begun taking birth control pills for the first time in her life when she had become convinced that her new beau might be Mr. Right. When Ryan said that he wanted to do it on the floor in the living room, she had acquiesced willingly. She was just beginning to enjoy Ryan’s familiar body and tenderness when the floor shuddered under the animal’s heavy steps. Before she could react, he was on–and in her. Ryan laughed and told her to enjoy it.

As Sheridan Weber finished her cigarette, she recalled the impression of empty stillness that she had perceived in the mobile home. She killed the engine and walked somewhat painfully back in to Ryan’s rental. It took only a few minutes to confirm her suspicions. There were no clothes in the closets; nothing in the fiberboard desk. Only the wet towels remained of her rapist’s presence. She checked her Rolex Day-Date. It was April 30th.

When Ryan Ben Hassan had first seen the billboard of Sheridan, he almost lost it. He executed a dangerous U-turn, screamed his red ’vette back to the point where he had spotted her, and did another U-turn coming to rest in front of the large road sign. He gawked transfixed, then screeched like a maniac at her.

The past six months had been a tremendous challenge for the sadistic man-child. But he had succeeded in his impersonation of a decent, considerate metro-sexual male. The difficult charade had been worth it. Tonight had been the fulfillment of the lifelong fantasy of both of her sons.

As he and Che began their three day drive back home, he bounced involuntarily between lunatic laughter and mournful moans at the image of her lovely face in excruciating pain.

CHAPTER TWO

T he short gray-haired woman paid $300 in cash for two weeks at the furnished summer house. She had found the place on a travel web site. It was seventeen miles from the target. She had been prepared to pay twice as much, but the owner told her that since it was after Labor Day, the rate was lower. She would only stay two nights. She needed to rest after her three day drive. Her goal was to strike on Wednesday n ight.

Standing on a deck that spanned the entire front of the cute little cottage, she took in a breath-taking view of Saginaw Bay. She told the owner that she was from Arizona and that she wanted peace and quiet. He had assured her that she would get what she came for.

Sheridan Weber sat in a deck chair and lit a cigarette. The former inter-collegiate athlete now smoked a pack and a half a day. Like the twelve cups of coffee that she swilled each morning and the bottle of wine she guzzled every evening, they satisfied her taste bud hunger. Over the past four and a half months, she had become psychologically dependent–if not physically addicted–to all three of the legal drugs.

She closed her still lovely blue eyes and exhaled a long plume of ugly gray smoke into an unseasonably warm day. She turned her head nearly a full 180 degrees and marveled at the blue green lake that shimmered in the sun for as far as she could see. Unlike the small shallow lakes that she had been used to in the upper Midwest, she could not see the other side. To her right, she saw the village’s marina with its many sail boat masts pointing skyward. To her left, she could make out a wooded peninsula that projected about five miles into the beautiful expanse. To her front were two small islands that conjured up pleasant mysteries.

Sheridan recalled looking at a map of the United States at age five or six, wondering what that mitten sticking up into the Great Lakes, called Michigan, would be like. Today, at twenty-eight, she sat on the tip of its thumb.

She had spent a weekend in Duluth while in grad school in Minneapolis. Although it had been July, Lake Superior looked cold and uninviting. To her delight, even in mid-September, Lake Huron seemed to welcome her. Without a conscious decision to do so, she stood and adjusted her bag. She walked down the four steps, drawn to the sandy beach. Part of her disguise was a pair of gray light sensitive sunglasses. They had darkened in response to the clear bright day. There were small white caps cresting noisily over a sand bar that lapped gently at her feet. Much to her surprise, Sheridan was experiencing wondrous joy, an emotion that she thought she had lost the capability to feel.

With restrained excitement, she slipped off her sensible shoes. She wore a dowdy shapeless dress that ended below her knees. Lifting it, as if performing a curtsy, she waded into the surprisingly warm clear water. Small ridges of fine tan sand accepted her steps. She took in deep breaths, savoring her natural high. Sheridan thought, It will be over soon, and she began to sob.

She saw a row boat coming into the shore. A pretty blond woman sat in the stern talking with animation to a tanned muscular man who pulled on the oars. Her newly acquired timidity forced her to turn her back, but the sublime warmth of the water and sand stopped her from retreating altogether.

Sheridan was amazed at what she now saw. Tall trees–some that had turned with subtle autumn colors–completely filled the horizon. Nestled in the lovely forest were thirty or forty attractive homes of different shapes, colors and facades. About half of the structures were on a hill overlooking the bay, and the remainder of them were at lake level. The grass and other foliage were still a lush green.

She heard the oars cutting through the water like a metronome, getting progressively louder. She felt herself blush with apprehension, and a counterpoint emotion of satisfaction at her disguise. She took off her sunglasses and wiped the tears from her cheeks, then realized that in doing so, she had let go of her skirt. The waves quickly soaked the fabric that clung to her shapely calves. She felt stupid.

The rhythmic sound of the oars stopped and she heard a sloshing noise that came closer. The guy in the row boat had jumped out and was pulling his craft and his lady onto the beach.

Hello there, neighbor. Welcome to paradise! hollered the woman.

Weber put her glasses back on and turned to the pair of fishermen. A tall slim woman smiled at her. Sheridan smiled back but said nothing. She thought that the pair looked very fit. They looked to be in their sixties–exactly the demographic that she was posing as. She managed to blurt self-consciously, Hi! Um. . . I’m just renting for two weeks.

The fellow was gathering up their rods and tackle. His mate held up two glistening fish, each one over a foot long. She said to Sheridan, We got our limit. Why don’t you help us eat these two beauties?

Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude…

Not at all. We’ve been all alone since Labor Day when the summer folks went home. We stay most of the year, but we winter in Arizona.

Sheridan thought quickly to maintain her cover story and asked, Where do you stay out there?

Scottsdale, the woman replied.

With that response, Sheridan knew where her character was from. She declared, I’m from Flagstaff. We call it Flag. It’s up north.

The friendly gal padded barefoot through the shallows, extending her tan calloused hand, I’m Karen. The tall silent type is my husband, Dan. Weber blushed again. Following her new friend’s lead, she gave only the first name of her alias, I’m Elizabeth, I go by Liz. Nice to meet both of you.

With the handshake, Karen took over. Dan will clean and filet these. I’ll have the meal ready in 45 minutes. We live right above you in the blue one. She pointed to a pale blue house on the hill with a large white deck. A blue and white umbrella rose above a wrought iron table and chairs. Weber, thinking of her medical condition, said with a blush, I’m a smoker, can we eat on the deck? Can I bring up the wine?

Dan answered with a grin, Yes to both. That’s where we usually eat. We’ll watch the sun go down. His wife declared enthusiastically, The sunsets are magnificent here. You’ve got to see one to believe it!

Looking her part as a woman of a certain age, Sheridan wore a prim long sleeved dress with pearl buttons. Her hair was in a tight bun. The skirt was long and full. At the neck of the gray Victorian style garment was an elegant ruffle of white lace. The waist and bodice were tight. Although she had lost weight after the failed surgeries, her breasts were still full and round due to her well-muscled pectorals.

She schlepped a canvas bag that contained three bottles of wine. At the top, she explained, I brought a Sauvignon Blanc, a Merlot and a Zinfandel. Didn’t know what you would like. Dan took the bag, commenting, That should hold us! I’ll open them all. We can have a wine tasting.

His wife came out with a full tray. She was wearing a sweatshirt with a color graphic of a fully loaded burger between the words Cheeseburger Festival. Karen said with awe, You didn’t need to dress up for dinner. That dress is lovely. Sheridan said softly, I rarely go out. Just wanted to look nice. I don’t eat much. I have some health issues. Her hostess tossed back with a wry grin, Don’t we all?

Sheridan sat in the chair that Dan had pulled out for her and declared, You two look very healthy and fit. She picked at the fish that her hosts called Walleye. It was delicious. She ate two Tater Tots that Karen had baked with onion, petite diced tomatoes and green pepper. They toasted and chatted about the weather and the lake.

Sheridan took the opportunity to practice her new role. She was her mother whose husband had died of cancer two years ago. However, she used her own education and career when they asked about it. After a long swallow of the white wine and the firing up of another cigarette, she explained, I was an investment and financial planner for thirty five years. I started with IDS, and then went out on my own. Made some money. I just sold my business last month.

Karen’s eyes widened, then asked, Mind if I pick your brain a little?

No problem. I’m not always right, but I’m always sure, Sheridan laughed.

Weber’s hostess explained that both of them were retired and that each had a sizable 401(k) account. Karen then asked, Right now, were thinking of converting them to Roths.

Sheridan exhaled and sat up facing Karen. She missed Dan’s bewildered expression. She was happy to give some good advice to these very nice people. She declared, with emphatic authority, Lose that idea. I know that you’re thinking about avoiding future taxes. Here’s the question–do you think that the way the Congress is spending–and the exploding national debt– that they will keep their promise not to tax your Roths in the future? The issue is not if, but when. They’re already taxing your Social Security. Moreover, whatever you pay now in taxes will reduce your principle…which of course, reduces your earning potential. Stick with your traditional IRAs.

After the Roth issue had been resolved, Karen told her new friend about the area. There’s an Amish furniture store in Pigeon–beautiful pieces at bargain prices. And the toney curio shops in Port Austin are all having half price sales. We could go shopping and have a nice lunch. Sheridan gave a polite non-committal nod.

After nibbling at her meal, drinking more than a full bottle of wine, and smoking three cigarettes, Weber said that she should get going. Her back had been to the lake. Karen advised her to swivel 180 degrees. She turned to see a marvelous sunset. The sky was vivid magenta at the far horizon where it diverged dramatically from the deep blue of the lake. As the sun descended, horizontal ribbons of pastel plum, pink, and coral ascended into a clear, azure sky. When it finally sank into the lake, the three applauded.

Dan offered to assist Sheridan down the rustic stairs, thinking that she might be tipsy. She laughed, Don’t worry, I’m a wino. I’ll stumble home.

The sunset had ended the most satisfying day that she had spent in the last four months. These two seemed to reflect the natural beauty that surrounded their home. They reminded her of her wonderful parents. Notwithstanding its magnificence, the sunset was an undeniable symbol of ending and inevitable darkness.

Sheridan choked up when she realized that she would never experience such peace again. Karen, reading her emotional state, reached out tentatively. Sheridan responded with a hungry hug, appreciating not only the other woman’s gesture but also the physical closeness. She initiated an embrace with Dan, who responded naturally to her vibes and squeezed her briefly. He patted her shoulder.

She felt slightly dizzy as she looked into their concerned faces. She had drunk a bit more than she usually did and was afraid that she might say too much. She turned quickly and went down the steps to her rented cottage.

As Karen rinsed the dishes, she asked her hubby, So, what did you think of her act?

Her act?

She blew out a loud breath in exasperation. Are we doing the ‘repeat the question’ routine? Dan shook his head. So, you think it was an act? It looked real to me. She is upset about something.

Obviously, but I was asking about her…. well, her act.

He repeated, Her act?

Karen turned to him and demanded, How old am I?

Honey, I know your birth date. What are you talking about?

Just answer the question. How old am I?

Sixty-two.

His wife smiled that he had finally answered a question, and followed up with a command, Look at my face. What do you see?

I see the most beautiful woman in the world.

His wife corrected him, No, you don’t! You see wrinkles, crow’s feet and some uneven coloration! Now what did you see on her face?

I wasn’t looking at her face. She had those big sunglasses, and the gray hair.

I know you were looking at her lips when she smoked, and her boobs under that phoney old lady dress. Think about the hug she gave you. How old is she?

Dan nodded, recalling the embrace, saying, Okay, she’s not as old as she claims. I don’t know.

Guess.

I don’t know. Forty–fifty?

Referring to their son’s wife who was twenty seven, Karen declared, She is Breanna’s age. And she’s not from Arizona.

Dan pronounced, sure of himself, I saw her license plate. Definitely Arizona.

Karen grinned with knowledge, But you missed the Enterprise rent-a-car sticker on the bumper. Then, there’s her accent. Sounded almost Canadian…like that movie, what was it? Fargo.

Dan countered, Well, she agreed with you about the Roth IRAs. I thought we had settled that.

Karen, who had been a banker, admitted, I was just testing her story about her job. I think that’s legit.

Dan queried, So, why so suspicious?

Well, old habits are hard to break. As a loan officer, you look at more than just the credit score.

So, Sherlock. What do we do about our mysterious neighbor? I do like her.

His wife replied, So do I. She is petite and sweet. I doubt if she’s dangerous. Whatever she’s up to, I hope it works out for her.

CHAPTER THREE

T wo nights later, Sheridan drove seventeen miles to a remote defunct farm. She had spent the past forty eight hours in bed, recovering from her long drive. Her condition not only depressed her spirit, but drained her body’s strength and energy. She had grown up in Ag country. She felt at home driving on straight roads laid out in square mile grids. The bucolic scene and the knowledge that it soon would be over rejuvenated her.

The old Becker homestead had been fallow for decades. The sandy soil had produced below average yields of sugar beets and potatoes in past years, but was now overgrown with scrub. However, along the Eastern half mile of the quarter section, there now grew a dozen giant windmills. They could provide their loud buzzing sound to mask the deadly din of her attack.

Earlier that evening, parked behind a deserted fruit stand on a two lane state highway, she had observed Ryan’s Corvette and Che’s Silverado pull out of their gravel road. The black truck had turned south toward Caro. The red sports car had turned north toward Sebewaing. She had also confirmed what the well paid local P.I. had noted in his report. The gravel road had little traffic and the nearest inhabited home was a mile south. She was confident that no one would notice her pull into the long rutted driveway to park behind the slouching gray barn. No one did.

Dressed in black sweat pants, a black hoodie, and a diaper, she was not disturbed to see that Ryan had installed a new dead bolt on the back door of the old clapboard house. She brought a battery powered lock pick that had cost her $1,700. Weber had field tested the illegal tool on several similar locks at home. She inserted the short spindle into the keyhole and pulled the trigger. In seconds, the bolt clicked open. She would leave the useful tool here, along with her weapon.

If the two half-brothers ran true to form, neither would return before midnight. The killer would have at least two hours to inspect the farm house for the perfect spot for her ambush. She entered confidently. As the P.I. had reported, there were no dogs or security alarm. She did not care about leaving fingerprints on the dead bolt as she re-locked it. However, she did not turn any lights on, relying on her police style MagLite flashlight.

The original two story house was a twenty four foot square that had been built a century ago and had never been improved. Sheridan knew this from the size of the windows. Four small narrow windows were evenly spaced in the front facade of the deteriorating wood frame structure, two on each floor. Ryan had told her that he had grown up on a dirt farm. Looking at the land and the buildings, she thought that he had told the truth about something.

The back door entered into what farm people called a mud room. It included a large sink and a toilet that was not hidden by a stall. That was also the case at her family home. A sturdy bench for removing muddy boots and pegs for dirty overalls sprouted from a plank on the wall. This room was next to the large country kitchen that looked like a set from a fifties appliance commercial. She noticed that like Ryan’s double wide in Williston, the room and its furnishings were spotless. Everything was in its place.

The rooms were separated with small three foot openings without doors. There was a front room, probably referred to by Grandma Becker as the parlor. It had a large oval rug on a finished pine floor. The furniture was old and worn. The only modern piece was a flat screen TV. The dining room was also in the front of the old house next to the parlor. She admired the table, chairs and hardwood buffet. The table top shone under the beam of her flashlight.

Sheridan went up a narrow stairway that creaked under her feet. She found three small bedrooms and a full bath. One room was immaculate, the other was a mess. The third bedroom was an office, complete with a land line phone, computer, printer and FAX machine. Sheridan stood still, listening hard. All she could hear was those renewable energy windmills. She made a thorough search for weapons. Finding none, she went back downstairs to plan her ambush.

She checked a large pantry in the kitchen and closet near the front door to make certain that her prey had no weapons. She found it odd. Every farm home that she had ever been in came equipped with at least a shotgun, and usually pistols and rifles. She found that the front door was secured by an ancient lock. It appeared that this entrance was never used.

With the knowledge that her prey would enter through the back door and pass through the parlor, Sheridan decided to hide in the dining room. She would be in darkness but still be able to hear and see them through the three foot arch. She pulled up one of the chairs and made certain that her weapon was loaded and ready.

The old farmhouse was set back at least one hundred yards from the country road. Sheridan’s first indication that her show would soon begin was a flash from the bright halogen headlights of Ryan’s Corvette coming up the drive. She heard the slams of both doors and had a pause. He wasn’t alone. Next, as she fully expected, came the click of the dead bolt and sound of the back door rattling and squeaking open.

What Sheridan heard next initially froze her, but then removed all doubts. It was the familiar mellifluous voice of Ryan Ben Hassan speaking to another person. I love you on top, he said. You are the superior female. Let’s do it on the living room rug.

Ryan flipped the switch for the overhead light in the kitchen and a trapezoid of white light filled the dark parlor. The compulsive Weber ran her finger across the selector switch of her weapon for the umpteenth time. It was on full auto.

She heard a soprano whine, Ryan, you promised me champagne. Then she heard the smooth disingenuous voice that had conned her, Ashley, love, it is presently chilling. You will have the bubbly after your first orgasm. It will prepare you for many more. The girl laughed, ignorant of what was to come.

The two lovers came into the parlor and began to undress, throwing their clothes haphazardly on the frowsy sofa. Sheridan peeked out to see their nude bodies in an embrace. Ashley was a petite curvaceous blond. It seemed that Ryan’s tastes had not changed. He looked as hunky beautiful as she remembered. He was also fully erect. Weber rose from the antique chair to stand in the dining room arch. She pointed her M-16 at Ryan’s penis as she commanded, Step away, Ashley!

Seventeen year old Ashley Nicole Dudzinski saw a short shapely woman dressed in black aiming an equally