Chapter 3

"... I had voluntarily stripped myself of all those balancing instincts by which even the worst of us continues to walk with some degree of steadiness among temptations..."

So it was that Sherry arrived home comfortably ahead of Sal, and had exchanged the ridiculous trappings for a garment that was more suitable. One that invited an entirely different kind of attention. She waited on a couch in the front room until the doorbell rang.

Opening the door, she was pleased to note Sal's double-take: the nearly universal human reaction to encountering Sherry's raw, animal aura. While he worked to recover his composure, she stole the initiative. "You must be Sal," she purred. "Carl told me to expect you." She stepped back and waved him in.

He entered rather dubiously. The dress she wore had a plunging - indeed, dive-bombing - neckline, and slits ran up both sides of the short skirt. "So, I take it you're Sherry?" Sal was trying to keep his eyes from roaming over her body, with strictly limited success.

"The one and only." She smiled in a satisfied way. There would be no trouble getting what she wanted, she was quite sure of that now. "Can I get you something to drink?" She led him to the living room.

"Not just yet." He looked around; the ground floor of the house hadn't changed noticeably since Sherry had 'moved in'. "Where's Carl?"

She sat down on the couch, leaving plenty of room for him to join her. "He's resting upstairs. He tends to be worn out when I'm through with him." She smirked. "Didn't he tell you about me?"

"I... think I'm beginning to understand." He stood uncomfortably, clearly having trouble focusing on the business he'd come for. "I thought you worked nights?"

"I got off early tonight." Another smile. "Are you disappointed?"

"Uh, no, not at all. But I'd really like to check on Carl."

"Oh, you just had dinner, give him a break. I'd like a chance with you. I've heard so much about you." She patted the cushion next to her. "Come, sit."

He did, carefully, a few inches further away than he really needed to. "What do you do for a living?" he asked.

"I'm a dancer at the Corinthian Lounge."

"Ah. Really." He absorbed that for a moment. "How did you and Carl meet?"

"We've been... intimate for years now." She stretched a little, drawing his attention to the benefits of intimacy.

"I never would have suspected that." He sounded doubtful.

"I think he was worried that associating with me would sully his reputation." She tossed her head and swept her hair back, grinning mischievously. "He was quite discreet."

"Apparently so." He looked away. "What changed? Why tell me about you now?"

"I'm a much more important part of his life these days."

"So I gather." He cleared his throat. "I have to admit, you don't seem quite the type I'd have pictured for him."

"He's been fantasizing about me for a long time."

"I can well imagine." She could see him struggle with his duty. "Forgive me for the way this question sounds, but... I wouldn't picture Carl as being your type. What do you get out of the relationship?"

"He... takes care of me."

"Why can't I get a straight answer out of either one of you?"

"I'm sure it sounds strange, but it's simply that our relationship is... complicated." Now she leaned forward and shifted closer. "But it's a very open one."

"That doesn't sound much like Carl." Sal seemed to be having trouble figuring out what to do with his hands, fidgeting and backing up slightly.

"I know what you mean, but you'd be surprised how much he's changed."

That seemed to shore up his determination a little. "I might be responsible for that. If I'd known about all this, I wouldn't have..." He moved to stand up. "I really think I should see him."

Sherry put her hands on his shoulders, holding him down. It didn't take all that much effort. "You're a good friend, Sal," she stated, hiding her exasperation. "Now, will you be my friend? Will you help me move a body?" A sinuous ripple of her form as she slid close left no doubt whose body she referred to. "After, you can see Carl if you want. I promise."

Still he hesitated. "Believe me, you'd be doing him a favor, too," she pleaded earnestly. "Carl wants this."

She saw the war inside him. He was Carl's friend... but he was also a man, and she was Sherry. She leaned forward the last few inches, pressing her chest to his and kissing his lips sensuously. His eyes told her the battle was won.

He didn't say anything. Instead, he put his arms around her and kissed her in return, drawing her close. Some of her enjoyment came from the perverse, wicked pleasure of fucking an old friend, someone who'd known Carl. But she'd been right, too. Sal did know how to treat a woman. He used his hands and tongue skillfully, and most importantly he didn't rush things.

While their tongues wrestled his fingertips roamed across her back, her sides, her hair, her cheeks. One sought lower, and ran along her thigh, following the split in her skirt. Then it slid back up and cupped her rear. He pulled her close, turning her onto his lap.

Gently he brought his hands up to her shoulders, and even as their lips remained locked, he eased the dress down over her shoulders, liberating her only nominally-constrained breasts. Sal sat back and paused, dazed at the splendor before him. Sherry was literally too good to be true. Her smug wink spurred him to further action. He brought his lips to the side of her neck, trailing feather-soft kisses down to her chest. Her breath caught in her throat. He took a nipple gently between his teeth and tickled it with his tongue, prompting a shiver and a gasp.

Meanwhile, his hands kept wandering about her body; the one stroking her back as the other moved from her rump around under her skirt, to her crotch. There it found no cloth, only the lubricious signs of a very ready female. He teased her for a few minutes, splitting his kisses between her breasts and her lips, while he played his fingers in and around her pussy.

Sherry repaid him with impassioned kisses and strokes over his form; but she did not reach for his cock, not inclined to interfere with his efforts. Eventually he shifted to a more direct and forceful mode, and called forth shrieks of joy from her.

Once this overture had come to completion, they moved in concert to ditch their clothing entirely. Sherry's insubstantial outfit was speedily dispensed with, but she took her time disrobing Sal. His suit progressively revealed its contents to her probing hands. Sal, for his part, displayed admirable patience as she labored.

Once finished, she lay back on the couch, one leg stretched to the floor, the other pulled up, her breasts bobbing gently with her fevered breath, and drank in the sights. He was in good shape for his age. A bit of fat, but on him it looked distinguished. She was reminded of an older wolf, one who had beaten rivals by strength before and still was canny enough to remain head of the pack. An attractive mate. His prick was of average size, but she was untroubled, confident he'd wield it properly.

Sal, too, had paused to admire the view from his perspective. His gaze was hungry but controlled; a general surveying territory he planned to conquer, working out a lengthy campaign. She experienced it as an almost physical caress, anticipation stoking inner fires. Then he strode deliberately forward, laying hands on her to guide her into the position he'd selected. He eased her back onto the couch, and kneeled by her hips.

She was on her side as he penetrated her, one leg tucked between his, the other wrapped around his waist. Many women would have found it uncomfortable but she accommodated it easily with her pliant, supple joints. Her back arched and she let out a loud low moan when he began to stroke in and out. She shrieked happily as one of his hands reached down and his fingers tickled her nub. "Oh, fuck, Sal, fuck me! Fuck me!" He complied with increased vigor. He'd made a good choice; he could excite her easily in multiple ways while still having a commanding view.

One hand helped support her and the other probed her anus, a double penetration far easier to allow for than two cocks, and much better coordinated. Her juices were flowing liberally so he had ample chance to make his fingers slippery. She hissed with pleasure, muscles stiffening. After a sharp explosion, he backed off to simple penetration for a time, then made another move, thrusting more aggressively.

A hand darted to her clit, maximizing her stimulation. Absently but approvingly, she noticed that it was not the hand that had recently been in her backside; that was a mark of experience, not wanting to leave any discomfiting infections later. She was immune, but he didn't know that.

After that, however, she left off appraising his technique and simply enjoyed the results of it. He continued to change things up, never quite letting her get used to any one mode. She came, enthusiastically, several times, before she decided to show off some of her skill. She commenced a spectacular display of muscular control, massaging him inside her with ripples and clenches and waves. He maintained control for a while longer than she expected, but finally gave in and shot a intense load within her.

Breathing deeply, he pulled out of her and sat back on the couch. Sherry sat up and put a hand to her pussy, twirling a little cum onto her finger. As he watched, she brought it to her mouth and licked it up. "Mmmmmm. I knew you'd taste good. As good as you fuck."

"I'm pleased to have been of service," he said, dignity maintained even as he panted. "You are truly an expert in the field."

"Oh, you can't say that now," she pouted. "You haven't seen anything yet." It was her turn to advance on him.

"Sherry, I'm flattered, but I simply cannot..." he trailed off as her talented mouth met his penis. His recovery was not instantaneous, but she was able to clean him off and coax a handsome erection faster than Sal had apparently believed possible. When she sensed he was getting close to his summit, she abruptly disengaged, to his unmistakable disappointment.

He was mollified in short order, however, as she shimmied up his body and began positioning herself atop his pelvis. In truth, he was also distracted by the sudden, immediate proximity of her spectacular tits.

She paused there, her vagina hovering inches above his stiff prick. Gazing into his eyes for long moments, not sighting her target at all, drops of her wetness fell unerringly onto the head of his dick. Languorously, and again unerringly, she descended to capture him inside herself. Both of them let out gentle appreciative gasps as docking was achieved.

Then she initiated a serpentine wriggling of her entire body even as her almost superhumanly-controlled internal muscles quivered around his member in a startling manner. He gasped again, this time in sheer disbelief. He regarded her with nearly superstitious awe; she laughed and intensified her motion.

Sal was panting heavily, struggling to maintain some kind of control, holding onto the couch with a deathgrip. Sherry bent forward, never slowing down, placing her bobbing rack directly in his face. Trying to delay the inevitable, he rocked his hips lower, attempting a partial withdrawal. But instantaneously she matched him, offering no respite. He groaned and closed his eyes, the war evident on his face.

At the last possible moment, she froze. He hovered for a time, right on the border of coming, then began to recede from the brink. She let it happen, but not very far. Within seconds she was moving again. Sal was helpless, dragged again and again to the razor's edge of release and then carefully ushered away.

There came a time when she did not stop. She clenched tightly and rippled her body and laid herself upon him and moaned loudly and Sal felt his cock tear itself violently apart in a cataclysm of ecstasy.

Sherry watched, amused and pleased, while Sal regained consciousness. His eyes fluttered open as he drew in heaving gulps of air. "That was... the most incredible thing that has ever been done to my dick in my entire life." He shuddered with reaction. "I thought my heart was going to..." he trailed off.

Sherry chuckled. "Now you can call me an expert."

... the horror of my old friend perhaps affected me somewhat...

They lay intertwined on the couch, resting, neither speaking. It took Sal about ten minutes before he remembered why he'd come to our house in the first place. He worked to pull himself out from under her with a serious expression on his face. "I'm sorry, but I think I need to talk to Carl. You said he's upstairs?"

Sherry resisted his attempts to extricate himself. "What's the rush? He'll keep." She wriggled enticingly. "Besides, aren't I a lot more fun?"

"Sherry, please. I..." He gulped as she groped at his equipment. "This is all very strange. I need to talk to Carl."

Sherry pouted. "Oh, come on. Just one more..."

It seemed that his suspicions were aroused again. "Later, perhaps. Right now I need to clear up a few things."

She sighed and rolled off of him. "So, do you really want to know what's going on?" she smirked. "Or will you take my word that Carl's never been better?"

"I'd like him to tell me that."

"If that's how you feel." She stood and motioned for him to rise. "Follow me."

"Excuse me a moment." He quickly put on his pants and shirt while Sherry watched with unveiled amusement, not bothering to clothe herself. Then she led him upstairs to her room. Unlocking the wardrobe, she revealed the supplies and premade doses of the concoction. Sal watched wordlessly as she poured a premeasured amount of the powder into a vial of the precursor. The reaction proceeded as usual.

"Enough of this," Sal bit out, angry. "I want to see Carl right now." He nodded at the mixture in her hand. "I don't need to see..."

She interrupted. "I'm showing you Carl, I promise." She looked him up and down one last time, lasciviously enjoying the sight.

Sporting an evil grin, she toasted him with, "Here's to us." She downed the philtre; the pangs of the transformation waxed and waned; I looked over to see Sal backed up against the wall, sheer horror pasted across his face. For a long time he couldn't speak, and I had nothing to say. I rapidly covered myself with a nearby robe, and didn't realize for several seconds it was one of Sherry's frilly peignoirs. Unfortunately, nothing more appropriate was at hand.

Our discussion after that was strained and awkward, as you might imagine. I haltingly explained most of what had happened, what I theorized, what I suspected. I began to apologize but the words died in my throat in the face of his blank stare. In all truth, what could I have said?

He left fairly soon thereafter. I remember thinking how tired, how much older he suddenly looked. I never heard from him again. Barely two weeks later, when I listened to the message on my answering machine informing me that he had died, I realized I had almost expected it.

I don't know if it was really just the shock of seeing the transformation. A very similar fate had befallen one of Tawesson's friends. I wonder if perhaps there's some kind of 'psychic fallout' or radiation or something if another person is too close during the transition? Neither of us have ever been tempted to find out since.

I went to the viewing but I didn't stay long, and I couldn't attend the funeral. I just wasn't sure I would be able to keep Sherry from manifesting herself, even in so somber a situation. Instead I sat alone in the store and drank a glass of wine in his memory.

"I have more than once observed that, in my second character, my faculties seemed sharpened to a point..."

About five months had gone by since Sherry's "birthday". Fall was approaching, and she had become something of a phenomenon in the Boston area. The club was filled to capacity every night, and she was clearing tens thousands of dollars a week. Much of that cash was immediately spent on clothes and partying, but even she couldn't outspend that income. Had she bothered with cocaine or heroin or that ilk she could likely have done so, but she wasn't tempted. Sex was her addiction, and she never ran out of fresh suppliers. (Although Sherry did keep a stash of Viagra and Cialis on hand; very few unaided men could keep her satisfied for terribly long.)

I was spending less and less time as myself; Carl no longer existed at night anymore. The store wasn't open more than three days a week, which took a toll on business, but with Sherry's earning power I couldn't manage to be terribly concerned. And truth be told, Sherry didn't feel the guilt that I did over what happened to Sal. Other people have drowned their sorrows in drink before; I simply took that to new heights. Or perhaps depths is a better term.

As I noted, her profile was skyrocketing. After an eventful night that led to the arrest of several of the Red Sox (and subsequent divorces for two of them), one of the larger area churches decided that a useful object lesson might be made. So it came to pass one Friday night that perhaps two dozen parishioners from Rock Baptist Church were picketing near the club when Sherry arrived. They were carrying signs citing verses of Scripture and generally denouncing sexual licentiousness.

She waved a hello to Dawg on her way backstage but then noticed his frown and slowed down. "What up, Dawg?"

"It's what's down. The damn crowd. Those fucking Jesus-freaks are scaring people away!"

"Oh," she replied. Sherry hadn't really noticed; she didn't care about mundane business details unless they affected her. She didn't even care about the money she made except insofar as it let her do what she wanted. She gave a "so what" shrug and started to turn away.

Dawg was uncharacteristically worried, and snapped at her. "It ain't just them outside. I found out that they're gonna try to do some kind of zoning shit, close us down!"

That got Sherry's attention. "When?" This was the closest club to her house; if it closed down she'd have to drive at least ten extra minutes to get to another one.

"I dunno for sure. They gotta talk to the city council, all that shit. But I hear they're serious."

She thought for a moment. To her, the solution was obvious. "Call the news types, get them out here to cover it."

Dawg practically exploded. "You dumb bitch, that'll fuck up my business even more! Those assholes want publicity and shit!"

But he'd forgotten who he was dealing with, and he was suddenly taken aback by her intense glower, falling silent. "Shut the fuck up," Sherry said, redundantly but very deliberately. "You don't get to call me 'bitch' unless you're fucking me, got it? I'll handle those shitheads. You just get a crew here." She turned on her spike heel and marched to the back. "Let me know when they get here," she called over her shoulder.

Sherry had finished one set and was entertaining a gentleman in the VIP room when a girl came in to let Sherry know that a news crew had arrived on the scene. She wrapped up her dance and hurried backstage to change. In a very brief time she was clad in sandals, a t-shirt, and cutoff jeans. Dawg hovered impatiently nearby as she dressed, not quite daring to say anything. When she finished, she turned to look at him. "They still out there?"

Sullenly: "Yeah."

"Get me Phil's boom box and one of his CDs."

"What the hell..." Dawg began heatedly, but then moderated his tone under her murderous stare. "Uh, which one?"

"I don't care. Something I can dance to."

Minutes later, she emerged from the lounge carrying the DJ's portable stereo and ambled nonchalantly across the street toward the protestors. Two were being interviewed by the reporter. The man who was speaking trailed off into silence as he caught sight of Sherry. His companion's jaw had already dropped.

The reporter turned at that point, and had his own jaw-sagging moment. He waved his hand urgently toward the approaching vision, and the cameraman focused on her as she arrived. Smiling openly, she called out, "What's going on here?"

The representative from the church stammered for a few moments, then collected himself, struck a heroic pose, and began holding forth. "We are here to protest this sinful and immoral establishment that is corrupting the morals of our community!" He stopped to inhale. "We do not accept the degradation of culture that the purveyors of..."

"Whoa, there," Sherry broke in, grinning. "I'm sure you've got a whole speech planned, but you're way off base." She looked earnestly into the camera. "We're not corrupting anybody. It's all grownups here at the Corinthian Lounge. We just want people to have a good time. It's about fun, not 'degradation' or whatever."

"Treating women as objects, selling sex and depravity? That is degradation and sin, not just of the women who dance but the men who..."

Sherry interrupted again. "How would you know? Have you ever been in there?"

Angrily, he began, "I don't have to..."

Not letting him finish, Sherry overrode his incipient tirade. "I didn't think so. Ever seen an exotic dancer anywhere?"

"No, but..."

"Okay, let's fix that now." With that, she took a few steps back, bent over (making sure her ass was aimed toward the camera), and put down the boom box.

"Wait, what..." Alarm had crept into his voice.

"I just figured you should have some idea what you're protesting." She turned on the music. It wasn't as loud as the speakers in the club, but it carried well enough. She whirled back to face the crowd and began a striptease.

Her dancing, and the whole persona she projected was... not exactly innocent, but not malicious. Playful is perhaps the best term. She was saying, with her smile, her body, "Isn't this fun? Don't you want to join in?" It was also, in the way of everything Sherry did, highly arousing.

None of the protestors could ignore it, but different people responded in different ways. Some were enraged, screaming epithets. Others prayed and averted their eyes, unable to bear the temptation before them. And many were mesmerized, staring raptly at the tantalizing display. (Nor were all of these ardent observers men.)

Sherry wrapped things up as the song drew to a close. She had revealed the immodest but legal bikini she'd been wearing underneath her clothes, but no more. This time when she bent to turn off the music, much more of her hindquarters were visible. Smiling, she waved to the camera. "If you want to see more than that, you'll have to come inside!"

The reporter and cameraman, protestors forgotten, followed her back toward the lounge, requesting an interview.

The resulting footage was television gold - plenty of sex as well as humor. Sherry had been careful to reveal nothing that the FCC could legitimately file a complaint over, so the protest was the lead story on the late news that very night. The protestors, with their comical mix of reactions, came off as complete buffoons. The item appeared on cable news over the weekend, and by Sunday it was one of the most-viewed clips on YouTube.

There was some talk of charges being pressed, but no one could name anything Sherry had done that was illegal. She hadn't collected any money, or stripped fully nude, or done anything but dance in public. The talk quietly withered away.

It was a PR disaster for Rock Baptist. They had not merely failed to harm the club, they had given it a massive publicity boost and damaged their own reputation in the process. They couldn't move forward in the political arena without opening themselves up to further derision. A change of strategy was called for.

"... leaping impulses and secret pleasures..."

Thus, the following Wednesday, Mrs. Patricia Palmer walked up to the front door of the club in the late afternoon. The wife of the head pastor, Michael Palmer, she was a formidable woman, as befitted one of the leaders of a church with several thousand members. In her late 30s, she kept herself in shape and well-groomed, though her dress maintained the modesty of her station. Her gentle manner was disarming, but rivals at the church had learned that steel lay beneath the surface, and her husband's position owed no small debt to her adept political guidance.