Chapter 1: The Next Step

Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Humor, Science Fiction, Group Sex, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Cream Pie, Tit-Fucking, Slow, Violent, .

Desc: Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Next Step - A mysterious local stranger dies, and ex-soldier Duncan Courtney inherits a spooky old mansion and a host of questions. As Duncan investigates, he discovers that neither the man nor the house are what they appear to be, and that he is destined to inherit much more than he bargained for. Inspired by Lazlo Zalezac's "Damsels in Distress" universe.

A few days after my 23 rd birthday, I sat alone in my one-bedroom apartment, nursing my fourth bourbon and contemplating my next step. I'd spent the last several months out-processing my unit, filling out forms and pushing paperwork to finalize my transition from the 753 rd Intelligence Battalion back into civilian life.

There had been so many appointments to make, and so many loose ends to tie-up, that my last day almost caught me by surprise. I was suddenly left with tons of time and no direction. After fighting a faceless enemy for five years, I was looking for a change. I didn't want to fight anymore. Other than that, I was open to all options.

I suppose it was some form of providence that the knock on my door came when it did. I hadn't been expecting anyone as the last of my military friends had transferred elsewhere weeks ago. I went to the door and looked through the peephole to see a tan older gentleman wearing designer shades, a well-tailored suit, and an impeccable haircut. I opened the door and held it wide.

"Can I help you?" I asked. The man raised his eyebrows at me, a gesture that seemed to convey a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. In his right hand he held a yellow manila folder, the kind usually tied off with that little string, and it appeared to be stuffed with documents, or whatever one puts in those things. He raised his left hand toward me, not for a handshake but rather to point at me.

"Are you Duncan Courtney?" he asked, his thin lips curling into a smile. "I'm looking for a Duncan Courtney, but I think I must have the wrong man."

"I'm Duncan," I said, slightly annoyed that he was pointing at me. "And you are?"

"Oh, I apologize," he replied. "I simply assumed you would be much older, that's all. My name is Rufus Crisp, and I am an attorney in the employ ... well, former employ of Gerald Courtney III." He opened his hand for a shake, and I tentatively took it, my curiosity piqued.

"Doesn't ring a bell," I said. "What's this about?" I had never even heard of a Gerald Courtney before, despite the fact that we seemed to share a last name. "Am I in some sort of trouble?" There was no reason to assume so, but lawyers had always made me nervous. Bad childhood experiences.

"No sir," he quickly said, "Not that kind of an attorney. My client is recently deceased, and I'm the probate lawyer handling the affairs of his estate." He held up the manila folder and smiled. "This may surprise you Mr. Courtney, as you don't seem to know the deceased, but my client has named you in his last will and testament."

"Huh," I said. "There must be some mistake. I don't know any Gerald." I took another sip of the bourbon and felt the warm reassurance of mild inebriation.

"I know," Mr. Crisp continued, shaking the envelope. "Gerald specifically mentioned that you were not acquaintances. It actually took a few days to track you down. He left no address - just your name, your occupation as a soldier in the United States military, and that you were stationed right here in Pittsburgh."

He shuffled his feet on my porch while I stared at him dumbly. "Begging your pardon, sir, but there is quite a bit of information to discuss. Is this a good time?" He gestured behind me into the apartment.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry man. Yeah, come on in." I stood aside from the door and let him enter, closing the door behind him. My apartment was small and fairly Spartan, but I did have a small "dining room" table, and I motioned him towards it. He glanced around at my bare walls and rough accommodations.

"Cozy," he said. Har har har. I ignored the jab.

"So, this fella left me something?"

"Correct, Mr. Courtney." Crisp took a seat at the table and placed the manila folder on top. "As long as you have some sort of identification to ensure me that you are indeed Mr. Duncan Courtney, I will inform you of what you will receive from the other Mr. Courtney's estate."

"Sure." I pulled out my wallet and handed him my driver's license. "This Gerald. He and I related?"

He handed me back the ID and shrugged. "I apologize sir, but I really don't know. Gerald had no immediate family, and lived a fairly quiet life. He named you as his primary beneficiary. Some smaller items will be going to friends and colleagues - that sort of thing - but the bulk of my client's assets, including his home in Fox Chapel, his vehicles, and most of his possessions, now belong to you."

He quickly untied the manila folder and pulled out some documents.

"Wow," I said. "We talking a lot of money?"

"A substantial dollar value." He looked around at my IKEA furniture and clear white walls. "Relatively speaking, of course."

"Wow," I repeated. "And you're positive that I'm the right guy?"

"Rather sure, sir."

"This isn't some sort of joke, right? You're not from some hidden camera show or anything?"

"This isn't a joke, sir." He produced a pen from his jacket and placed it on top of the documents, sliding them across to my side of the table. "I'm going to need your signature on a few things, and there will be some follow-up appointments that you will need to attend, but if you're willing, we can go over your inheritance at this time."

He took out a pair of bifocals and perched them atop his schnoz. He asked again "Is this a good time?"

"Actually yeah," I said, scratching my head, a bit embarrassed that I had nothing else to do. "Now works." I picked up my empty glass. "But I'm gonna need another drink. You want a bourbon?"

He laughed and sat back in his chair, glancing at his watch first and then at the size of the stack of papers before me. "Soldiers..." he said, chuckling. "What the hell. Make mine neat."

The house Crisp mentioned was a four-bedroom, two-story townhouse on the outskirts of the city in a small housing development that had been built back in the 70's. It was a beautiful home, Crisp said, and it was large enough to accommodate a family with several children easily.

"For a single man," he noted, "it's almost too much. I don't understand why the old man liked to live in such a big place."

Crisp explained to me that Gerald Courtney had been the owner of a string of used bookstores that serviced Pittsburgh and the surrounding Three Rivers area. He had managed the business until 4 years ago, when he liquidated his shares of the company and retired to live the good life. He unfortunately did not have much time to enjoy his rewards as he was diagnosed with testicular cancer six months later.

"Dick cancer. That's what he called it," Crisp said with a grin. "He once told me that he always knew that one day his dick would be his undoing. Even towards the end, he was always cracking jokes. He really was a lovely person to be around." He looked at me somberly. "Shame you won't get to meet him."

As to how Gerald knew about me, we were both clueless. Courtney was only my birth name. My parents – the Courtneys - were both killed in a car crash when I was only a few months old and I had grown up as Duncan Kennedy, taking the name of the folks who had adopted me.

I never really saw eye-to-eye with the old-man though, and after a particularly violent encounter near the end of high school, I cut ties with him and changed my name back to "Courtney." It was possible that I was related to this Gerald, whoever he was, but I really had no idea about it either way.

"Some people – officials and such – may drop by the premises to assess it for tax purposes, but you can check on the home any time you want." Crisp reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small ring of keys, tossing it on the table. "I'll have my secretary email you the details. If you decide to sell it, come to me first. I know the area."

"Sounds good," I said, picking up the keys. There were three keys that appeared to be the size and shape of house keys and two others. One was a beat-up old-looking key with the Chevy logo on it, and the other was a plastic encompassed, laser-cut dongle for a Mercedes Benz. I almost got hard just looking at it.

"Your vehicles will be in the garage. I hope you can drive a stick."

"I certainly can," I said, triumphantly squeezing the keys into my palm. This was like Christmas, only I was getting all the stuff I actually wanted instead of knit sweaters. We went through all the documents, crossed all the t's and dotted the i's. I still thought someone was playing a prank on me so I made sure to carefully read everything I was signing ... well ... mostly. It was a lot of paperwork, and some of it was pretty heavy on the legalese.

After a half hour had passed, the paperwork was essentially completed, and the reality of the situation started to sink in. "I still can't believe this is happening," I said, "It's like something you'd see on the news: 'local man wins a 25 million dollar lottery or whatever.' It just feels too good to be true to inherit all of this from a stranger with no strings attached."

"Well, it's not 25 million, especially after taxes, but it's true," Crisp said, finishing his drink. "But, to be entirely honest with you, there is one string attached."

I immediately felt anxious, thinking back to all of the legal forms I had just signed. Did I miss something? He stacked the documents and folded them neatly into his briefcase.

"What do you mean?" I asked, perhaps a bit too aggressively. "I thought I read everything. What string?"

"Oh it's nothing official," he assured me, patting the briefcase. "Gerald never wanted to put anything on paper about it. And there is really no way to enforce your compliance in the matter..."

"What matter?"

"Gerald wanted you to live in the house for one week before selling it, if that's what you choose to do." Crisp stood up and straightened his jacket, before picking up his briefcase. "But as I said, there is really no way for me to force you to stay in the house, which is why I hadn't mentioned it. It was simply Gerald's wish that you spend a week in the house before any action is taken."

"That's all?" I said. "Seems a little bizarre, but whatever." Spending a few nights in the place didn't seem too much to ask. It was probably a hell of a lot nicer than my current digs in the first place. Unless...

"Wait," I said. "This guy Gerald was sane, right? Is the house full of trash or cats or something? He didn't have a murder-room in the basement, did he?"

"I visited the premises just this morning, Mr. Courtney, and I can assure you that it is perfectly clean and well appointed; no cats. It's a nice place. I couldn't see a young fella like you having any problem with it." He shrugged. "But it's your choice, of course." I walked him to the door, and held it open for him.

"I think I'm going to do it," I said, the bourbon talking. I knew that I should consider it further, but I really couldn't imagine finding anything serious enough to prevent me from sleeping a few nights there. During my last tour, I'd stayed in a dirt-lined underground ex-prison in Afghanistan for 9 months and slept like a baby.

"I mean, I'll check it out to be sure, but if this guy left me so much, the least I can do is honor such a simple request. I'll head over tomorrow."

Crisp shrugged again. "I really don't care, Mr. Courtney." He turned to shake my hand before smiling. "But I do wish you the best of luck. Any further concerns or questions can be addressed to my secretary, who will contact you shortly. There are a few tax issues to finalize. Good day, sir." He walked off towards his very black, very conspicuous Lincoln, and drove away.

I shut the door behind him and stood in silence for a moment. Well well, I thought, I guess now I'm rich. I was happy but too stunned for it to fully register. I didn't know what to do next. I walked over to my phone and started texting Danielle.

Pick you up from work tomorrow? We need to talk

Returning to my chair, I took up my rocks glass and swirled the remaining swig of bourbon around the bottom before raising it in a toast to myself. "To the next step," I said, and drained it.


I spent the following morning in medical appointments pertaining to my military separation, but thought of nothing but my supposed inheritance. I got in touch with Danielle - one of my remaining civilian friends in the area – and she agreed to hang out and maybe spend the night.

Dani and I had dated for about a year before we both decided that we were interested in different things. Instead of cutting ties, we kept in contact, and in a weird way, the break-up actually brought us closer together. We no longer argued over the future, and instead went to bars and movies, got drunk, and often ended up fucking.

We had fun, but our connection was very casual. It lacked any of the true highs and lows of a meaningful relationship. We were simply friends who occasionally shared a bed.

I pulled up across the street from where she worked and texted her that I had arrived. She was a waitress at "The Thaiwaiian," a Hawaiian and Thai fusion restaurant that appealed to foodies and eclectic artists with money. As a result of the upscale clientele, Danielle made a better living as a waitress than I had made as an analyst in the military.

But it had recently come under new management and the food had suffered as a result. From the outside, the place still looked flashy and inviting but from what Dani told me, the business was failing. It would be shutting down in a few months if nothing changed. She tried not to let it bother her, though.

She came out of the door a second later, and scanned the street for my beat-up Accord. I honked and she acknowledged me with a smile before running across the street to the passenger side. I sighed, happily watching her run.

Danielle was adorable. She wasn't anyone's supermodel, but she had a slim diminutive figure, voluptuous appointments, and a smile that made me want to keep her happy forever.

That's already a pretty attractive package in my book, and it only became better when you considered the ass toned by waiting on hipster bitches all day, the smooth skin that perhaps spent a bit too much time crisping in the sun, and the ridiculously wide innocent-seeming eyes of a cartoon vixen. I was also a sucker for dark-hair and hers was black and sleek like oiled midnight.

She wasn't built for running though, as her ample bosoms were quite disproportionate to her short stature. Being a tiny person at 5'2" had forced her to buy undersize clothing, and as a result I was often treated to the sight of her glorious double D's trying to bust out of tops that were clearly incapable of containing such epic cleavage. And so I watched her run...

"Hiya D," she said, opening the passenger side door and scooting her little butt onto the seat. "How's my favorite soldier boy feeling today?" She was wearing large goofy movie-star shades and a sleeveless black low-cut shirt that frankly made that shit pop.

"Slightly aroused to be completely honest." She gave me a little punch on the arm as I shifted in gear. "And it's ex-soldier now."

"Oh that's right! You finally got out! I'm so happy for you." She leaned across the chair and planted a quick kiss on my cheek, before digging her phone out of her purse. "Congratulations. I had forgotten that it was happening so soon."

"Yeah, feels like it snuck up on me. I guess from now on I'll have to trust my comrades with the defense of our fair nation." She snickered.

"How will they ever manage?" she said. "Have you figured out what you're going to do now?"

"Not sure, yet. I sent out some college applications so that's a possibility." I watched her cross her bronze legs out of the corner of my eye. "Or I could just devote more time to getting into your pants."

"Right," she said, laughing. "Well, in any case, don't get your hopes up buster. I don't sleep with guys that are unemployed." She snuck her tongue out at me, before turning back to her phone. "How can you buy me presents and take me to exotic places with no job?"

"I knew it," I said. "All you girls are the same. And here I thought you were sleeping with me because of my gigantic personality."

"Gigantic!" she laughed. "Gigantic, he calls it." She continued typing with her thumbs. "Don't get me wrong, Duncan. I'm very fond of your well-endowed personality but gigantic is a stretch."

"Your shirt is a stretch."

"Oh whatever, you love the way this shirt looks on me!" She turned toward me in the seat and pushed out her chest to drive her point home.

"But if you want, I guess I could always just take it off." I was torn between the urge to get lost in her tits and the urge to not drive the car off the road and perish in fiery death. Luckily, discretion prevailed.

"Better put those things away until I'm off the road," I said, feeling a little bit lame. She just pouted and settled back into her seat. "Besides, I was at least planning on wining and dining you before taking advantage of you."

"And they say chivalry is dead," she quipped. "So what are we doing tonight, anyway? Anything good showing at Loews?"

"No movie tonight," I said "I got something else planned. Something special." I turned the car north away from the city instead of taking the usual route through South Side. Danielle seemed to notice and raised an inquisitive eyebrow at me.

"Where are you taking me, D?"

"Umm..." I said, fishing around in my pocket for the piece of paper. I produced it and read out the address that I had copied down from Crisp the night before. "We're going to 4955 Beacon Street." She eyed me dubiously. "Over in Fox Chapel."

"Fox Chapel? So where are you taking me, D?"

"A house," I said. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I'm taking you to a house. I kind of inherited it."

"You inherited a house? From who?"

"A guy named Gerald."

"A guy named Ge..." She took off her sunglasses and looked at me straight. "You inherited a house from a guy named Gerald?"

"That seems to be the case," I admitted. "Some cars, too." She then stared at me in silence until I told her more.

"I didn't know the guy," I continued, "but we share a last name. I'm thinking he might be some distant relation that found me on ancestry·com or something but I'm not really sure yet."

"Are you serious?" she asked. "You're not screwing around with me?"

"Not yet," I said. "But that shirt might make me start." I smiled at her and she stuck her tongue out at me before putting her phone back into her pocket.

"Fox Chapel is a nice neighborhood," she said. "How's the house?"

"We'll find out in about 35 minutes if Google Maps can be trusted." I plugged my phone into the dashboard and it started offering me directional advice in a sassy British accent. "I just found out about the place last night so I haven't seen it yet."

"Oh fun." She kicked off her flip-flops and pulled her tan calves up under her thighs on the seat. "Is it big?"

"Well, it's not gigantic but I hear it's still well-endowed."

"Oh you're soooo funny, Duncan. Ever the smartass." She leaned in towards my phone and started scanning through the directions. "And did you say cars too? As in the plural of car?" I motioned towards the two new keys hanging from the one currently in the ignition and she leaned closer. "Wow, is that a Mercedes?"

"Oh my God, you are such a gold-digger!" I laughed and playfully pushed her away.

"Hey!" she said. "I offered to take my shirt off before I knew you had become such a big shot. You turned me down, remember?" I stole a glance to my right and saw those wonderful juicy tits, angrily sequestered behind the confines of a baby-T. I remember all too well...

"Fair enough. But now that I'm rich and powerful, you'll do all the dirty sex stuff that I've read about so I'll marry you without a prenup, right?"

"Maybe," she said with a wink. "It depends on what Mercedes it is."

"I hope it's the one with gull wings," I said. I knew nothing about cars, but ever since watching "Back to the Future" as a kid, I've wanted a DeLorean with vertically-opening doors. She laughed.

"Gull wings, huh?"

"Gull wings."

"I might be willing to do some nasty stuff for gull wings."

The conversation ended as soon as the latest twangy cowboy music came onto the radio. I'd never been a country music fan but there is definitely something to be said about listening to good ole boys singing about trucks, beer, and women while driving through picturesque hills in sunny 80 degree weather with the windows down. It feels like freedom. It feels like 'Murica.

I sang along and Dani rolled her eyes at me. She let it play though, before plugging in her iPhone to serenade me with some pretentious garbage probably written by some artsy girl covered in paint splatters and man-hate. But Mars and Venus, right? I let it go.

The city opened up and we soon found ourselves on wide freshly-paved streets dotted with construction sites and new impressive-looking homes. The area was a fair distance away from the bustle of the city and was semi-secluded from the surrounding commercial zones by a dense copse of tall trees.

The houses nearest to the entrance of the "Regency Estates" housing complex were still under construction, and tractors and bulldozers rolled over the open dirt, terraforming Pittsburgh's little remaining countryside into charming new backyards for rich people.

Nearer to the rear of the development were several streets of beautiful finished homes, all constructed of similar materials but differing in design. At the tail end of Beacon Street, we rolled to a stop in front of 4955. I sat bewildered for a moment, unable to process the appropriate words.

Dani seemed similarly stunned but she was still able to say what we were both thinking. "Holy fucking shit."

It was massive. There are four bedroom homes and there are four-bedroom homes and this was definitely the latter. The house itself was situated at the head of a cul-de-sac, with thick woods at the rear and two tree-dotted lawns on either side.

The neighbors sat on similarly impressive properties a hundred or so meters away in either direction. A short cobblestone walkway wound from the street to the front door in between two gnarly oak trees that dominated the front yard. Each tree sat in a cedar-lined raised bed tastefully appointed with thick bunches of complementary wildflowers.

As it was autumn, the lawns were littered with leaves of various colors and the entire property held a sort of natural grace, like a beautiful woman in the buff. I felt like I was staring at a Bob Ross painting.

I turned the car onto the blacktop driveway that passed underneath the canopy of trees farther into the yard and pulled to a stop on the concrete car-park outside the garage. To my surprise, there was another car already parked there, and it was neither a Chevy nor a Mercedes, but a beat-up old minivan.

"Is there someone else here?" Danielle asked.

"I'm not sure. The lawyer guy Mr. Crisp said there might be some people coming by to assess the value, stuff like that." I stepped out of the car and shut the door. "I gotta say, this is a little ridiculous."

The house was a large structure made of red brick and dark wood. The architect must have been into castles, as there were two circular spires jutting into the sky on either side of the main chamber. One side of the building was attached via a small windowed tunnel to the garage – itself a squat red-brick building complete with a chimney - and the other side of the building opened into an octagonal room of unknown import. "Dani ... I'm like totally rich."

"Holy shit," she repeated. "This is right out of the pages of Architectural Digest." I gave her a funny look, and she smiled back at me. "What?" she said. "I read."

My attention was drawn to the front porch, to what appeared to be a slim woman holding her hands up to a porch window, trying to peer inside. I pointed at the woman and Dani furrowed her brow in an obvious "Who be dat ho and why she be here?" look. I shrugged in response. As we neared the front door, she noticed us and spun around, clearly surprised.

"Oh my stars!" she said, holding her hands up and laughing. "You scared the devil outta me." She was chocolate-skinned with lean dark eyes that seemed to narrow towards me in an appraising manner.

Her face was exotic-looking, a mixture of Asian-I-think, and perhaps-something-South-American. She had smooth black hair pulled tight into a bun on her head, and she wore a strikingly snug dark suit over voluptuous curves with a skirt that trod the line between immodest and downright scandalous. My dick woke up and appropriately took notice.

She walked towards us and met us halfway before saying in an exasperated manner, "if you're looking for Gerald, he doesn't appear to be home." She dug through her purse and brought out her phone before furiously punching buttons.

"Umm no, we're not looking for Gerald," I said. "My name is Duncan Courtney." She raised her eyes. "I'm here to check out the house."

"What did you say your name was? Are you a relative?"

"Duncan Courtney," I repeated. I offered my hand to her in an effort to shake but she didn't return the gesture. She probably assumed that I was selling something, and kept silent with a cold emotionless expression. I let my hand drop.

"I'm not sure if I'm related. I don't think so," I said, scratching my head. "Just the same last name, I guess." She continued looking at me, bobbing a phone in one hand, and tapping her foot, as if she was waiting for me to finish.

"Is there something I can help you with?" she asked. She carried herself like the woman of the house. I wondered if she was.

"I don't think so," I replied, before considering how to proceed. Whoever she was, it was obvious that she did not realize that Gerald was gone. I didn't want to be the one to break the news but figured that she was someone who needed to know.

"Look, Mrs..." I offered my hand again and again she refused. I got a little pissed. Even if I was a salesman, everyone deserves the respect of a simple handshake.

"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, whoever you are, but Gerald's dead." She stopped bobbing her phone in her hand but kept her face impassive. It was almost as if I was speaking to the door behind her.

"He's dead? How?"

"He had cancer," I said, raising my hands. "Or so I hear. I honestly didn't know the man." She continued staring at me with an intensity that made me want to squirm, but I was a soldier and had stood down more intimidating characters than her. I stared right back.

"Then what..." she finally broke her gaze and looked from the house, to Danielle, to the cars, and then back to me. "Then what are you here for? This is Gerald's home."

"Not anymore," I said. "He left it to me." I took the keys out of my pocket and held them up in front of her. I didn't jingle them out of respect for the dead, even if the woman was being overly curt with me. She calmly deposited her phone back into her purse and crossed her arms instead, shifting her hips onto her back leg.

It was a confrontational posture and I didn't like it.

"That can't be right," she said, her countenance beginning to unravel. "That's impossible. Who are you again?" I became frustrated.

"My name is Duncan, as I already told you twice, and I'm not telling you anything else until you tell me who you are what you're doing here..." I was angry and so I added " ... on MY property." Her eyebrows shot up above the rims of her sunglasses.

"Oh, it's gonna be like that?" She looked ready to get street with me but I knew that if she touched me, Dani would beat the shit out of her. Dani was a little gangsta.

"It's like that," I repeated. "Now is there something I can help you with?" She seemed to consider the offer, glancing over to Dani and then back to me. Instead she pointed a finger at my chest. What's up with everyone pointing at me?

"Fuck you." She said angrily. Fuck me? I was shocked. She then walked back to the door and started banging on it harder than before. "Gerald!" she screamed. "Answer the door, Gerald!"

I looked at Dani and she returned an expression of absolute bewilderment mixed with a dash of venom.

"Look lady," I said. "Technically, you're trespassing, and I'm asking you to leave, right now." The mysterious woman turned her furious eyes back to me.

"You can't talk to me like that!" she yelled. "Don't you know who I am?" I let go of my fragile grasp of good manners.

"I would know who the fuck you were if you'd tell me!" I yelled back.

I may have had little tact, but I had less patience. She was being rude on a day that should have been nothing but amazing, or at least so I had hoped. Her eyes widened so much at the comment that I could see them expand through her dark shades.

"You're a liar," she said. "Gerald would never leave his things to someone like you." Then I jingled the keys. I jingled them shits right in front of her stupid face.

"He did. Now get off my porch before I call the cops."

The woman became animated and started flailing her hands around, still pounding on the door. "This is bullshit! Fucking bullshit!" With one last kick at the door, wearing heels no less, she turned back and pushed between Dani and me down the footpath towards the vehicles. She screamed "Bullshit!" a few more times while Dani and I stood mystified.

"Good Lord," I muttered as she pulled out of her spot with a squeal. It was actually impressive that she could pull that off in a mini-van. She quickly drove away and down the street. "What just happened?"

"Spurned lover?" Dani guessed. "You think?"

"Spurned daughter maybe. Gerald was like eighty or something. Unless the dude had a dick like a fire-hose, there's no way he could snatch up such a fine piece of..." Dani sighed at me but still smiled.

" ... such a finely appointed ... crazy person..." I finished.

"Seriously?" she countered. "You really thought THAT was attractive?" In truth, the woman had been one of the most interesting combinations of ethnicities I'd ever seen, and something about brown skin just does it for me. If you then factor in long chocolate panty-hosed legs that disappear under a short skirt? Forget about it. She was drop-dead gorgeous, and I had no doubt in my mind that I would spend considerable time in the future imagining her wearing nothing but crazy.

"Nah, she's gross," I told Dani, before quickly changing the subject by jingling the keys yet again. "Shall we?"

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