Chapter 9: Treachery

Deuteronomy 23:1

He that is wounded in the stones, or hath his privy member cut off, shall not enter into the congregation of the Lord.*

Flynn called me from Minneapolis, “We have a lead on Eddie Nix. One of Clint’s local snitches may have spotted him going into the Creed compound. Clint is staking it out now.”

“I’m on the way.”

“Text me your flight info, I have my own car now.”

I told Daddy I was taking off; he considered joining me, then decided to stay close to Sandra Fleming. She would update him if any more news regarding Madam X came in from DC.

The pleasant weather — sunny and mild — continued from KC to Minneapolis. Irrationally to me, it seemed almost like an affront. We were chasing pure evil and the day was so fucking cheerful.

Flynn greeted me with a hug and a .38 S&W in a shoulder holster. “He said, “Clint came through.”

While I certainly hoped we wouldn’t need the weapons, I was relieved to have them. I adjusted the holster as we drove, then put my blazer back on. It wouldn’t fool a cop, but it shouldn’t scare women and children either.

On the drive from the airport to St. Paul, I told Flynn, “I tasked one of my irregulars — Joey Viagra — with hiding a couple of motion-activated cameras back at Grayhock.”

He nodded, “Just in case Madam X returns for some reason.”

“Yeah, I’ll get an alert every time someone goes in either door.”

“There’s still crime scene tape everywhere?”

“Yes. The only person who is authorized to be on the property is a neighboring farmer. He comes to feed those fucking hogs every couple of days.”

“Why?”

“That’s what DC wanted to do. Eventually they’ll give them a lethal injection, but for now...”

Flynn turned our focus back to the hunt for Eddie Nix. And Clint’s informant. “The bint wasn’t positive, but she was pretty sure it was him.”

I laughed, “Bint? What are we, in a 1930’s movie? Black and white? George Raft flipping a coin?”

“It’s British, actually — you folks out in America don’t keep up.”

“Fuck you, you fucking New York snob.”

“Speaking of fucking...”

We were teasing each other; probably trying to keep from thinking about the Grayhock horror show. I said, “Flynn, how are you and Clint getting along?”

Two New York natives, both in law enforcement. Both now in the private sector.

Flynn stopped kidding around, “He’s a good guy. Solid. I like him. Respect him.”

“Good.”

He glanced sideways at me, “In fact he’s going to talk with you and Dave. He’d like to invite me to join Vanguard Security.”

I felt a quick flush of warmth, of gratitude toward Clint. I’d broken up with him, not exactly because of Flynn, but it could have looked that way. Felt that way to him. And here Clint was big enough, smart enough, to overlook the personal, and concentrate on what was best professionally.

I looked again at the mugshot that Flynn had given us. He had known Eddie Nix slightly, back when Nix still lived in The Bronx and Flynn was still a cop. Nix didn’t look like a master criminal. He was sort of nondescript, but that didn’t fool me. I remembered Flynn’s description, “When he goes into the corner, he comes out with the puck.”

I looked again, noted the hard eyes.

Flynn drove smoothly, gliding from one highway to another. We cruised into St. Paul, into a neighborhood near a lake in Phalen Regional Park. He said, “Call Clint, his phone’s on vibrate.”

He answered right away, “No sign of Nix. Nor of anyone. Now that you guys are here, I’m ready to look inside.”

The Creed of the Apocrypha compound was modest — one medium-sized building with two smaller structures behind it. Nothing steepled, nothing looking like a church. There was a small front porch on the main building. We climbed up and pulled on thin nitrile gloves.

A discreet brass plate, in need of some polish, read ‘Creed of the Apocrypha’. It was just below an old-timey doorbell which Clint ignored. The door was unlocked, and we filed in.

It was hush-quiet in the living room. Sunlight streamed in at a diagonal, highlighting lazy dust motes. We hadn’t drawn our pistols, but I had unbuttoned my blazer.

I think all three of us sensed the emptiness of the house. That feeling there was no other person inside. Still, we searched every room, upstairs and down. Two of the three bedrooms had been converted to offices. There was one filing cabinet in what had been the dining room, but the manila folders were so dusty they looked like they hadn’t been touched for months.

No computers, no address books, no calendars. There was an overall feeling of mustiness. Like this was a placeholder, a temporary stop for boring administrative functions.

I looked out back through an over-the-sink kitchen window that could use a good scrubbing. I whispered, “Guys,” and knelt down below the window.

Flynn and Clint stood motionless.

“There’s someone in the building on the right.”

Flynn said, “Stay here, we’ll circle around.”

He and Clint backed out of the kitchen, crept through the dining room, the living room, and out the front door. I could have resented being left behind — the bint — but my only focus was on getting Eddie Nix.

I crawled to the far righthand window and peeked out. Flynn was crouched down beside the front door. I saw Clint sidling around back. A few seconds later, Flynn reached for the doorknob, and turned it slowly.

As he rushed in, I knew Clint would be crashing in through the back. I pushed out through the kitchen door and raced toward the building, holding my pistol in both hands. The scene was anticlimactic, almost comic.

Eddie Nix, was sitting at a little table, nibbling from a box of Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes. He was wearing boxers and a wife-beater undershirt. Even with three guns pointed at him, he just sat there, regarding us calmly.

Nix looked at Flynn, seeing him as an individual for the first time. He ran the face through his mental Rolodex and frowned. “Johnny Cop. Harlem.”

I found his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans which were draped over the other chair. I handed Clint Nix’s Minnesota driver’s license. He Googled the address and said, “Not far from here.” Tossed the jeans to the creep and said, “We’ll see who else is there.”

Flynn nodded, “He was a loner back home. Could be a good place to question him.” In case any of the Creed brethren stopped by here.

Nix remained placid as he finished dressing. He walked calmly between Flynn and Clint. They put him in the backseat of Clint’s rental. And used PlastiCuffs to secure his hands behind his back. Flynn slid in beside him; Clint got behind the wheel.

I followed in Flynn’s car. So far as I could tell, no one had seen us at the compound. And we had touched nothing with our bare hands, had left no trace of ourselves back there.

As we headed north and east, the neighborhoods began getting a little shabbier. Unkempt lawns, a junker in a driveway, a couple of abandoned structures.

Then we passed the city limits and it got worse. Nix’s house looked like a rotting tooth in a wasted mouth. Two upstairs windows were covered in plywood. The gray paint had been peeling for decades. And this guy was a big shot in the Creed?

But looks can be tricky. The front door was locked with a Medeco Maxum — one of the most secure deadbolts on the market. Clint used Nix’s key, and in we trooped. Flynn stayed with Nix while Clint and I made sure no one else was home. Nada.

The house was more sad than anything. Furniture was decades old. And dusty. No artwork, no sense that anyone cared.

Flynn snipped the cuffs, and I noticed that Nix didn’t rub his wrists. Tough guy.

Clint spoke quietly, “You’re going to talk, Eddie, going to answer our questions. You can stall, draw it out, but you’ll tell us what we want to know. Eventually. Everyone has a breaking point.”

Nix’s thin lips, set above a fighter’s mouth, tightened. This wouldn’t be easy. But I had seen what Madam X had done to Benny Chang. And knew what she had in mind for Bianca Uribe. Due process? Fuck that.

Unlike when Flynn interrogated Bobby Ray Guthrie, Nix didn’t curse, didn’t quote from the 14 chapters of the Apocrypha. He simply didn’t utter a word.

While he was clamming up, I searched the house more thoroughly. I turned up a Glock .357, the G31 model. And a black, deadly-looking Smith & Wesson combat knife, around 10-inches long. Razor-sharp death.

There was a Dell computer — the Inspiron 15 Laptop — that was password protected. If the boys agreed, I’d turn it over to Sandra Fleming and let the FBI have at it.

The last thing of interest was a package of crepe bandages — 4-inches wide and 5-feet long. They were made of polyurethane fibers, and I knew that EMTs used them to immobilize broken arms and legs. I brought the pack back to Flynn and Clint. I thought the bandages might be useful in enhancing the Eddie Nix ballet.

He was still mum; it wasn’t a stately Mandarin silence, more grim determination.

Flynn sighed, “Strip, Eddie. It’s come to that.”

Surprisingly, Nix didn’t resist. He simply took everything off. For the first time I noticed the wrist tattoo. An O followed by 1111. Flynn said, “The OG. Like having a Communist Party card with a single-digit membership number.”

Nix had a certain look. A pinched face, narrow. Like someone weaned from the baby bottle too soon. Because I was a professional detective, licensed, I noted that he had a short, stubby cock poking out from a tangle of black, curly hair.

Clint looked at the crepe bandages and smiled, “I bet they used them on Bianca. Our turn — poetic justice.”

Flynn nodded, “It’s a good way to keep someone from escaping. And they’re available everywhere.”

He and Flynn led Nix into the 1950’s kitchen and lay him on his back on the Formica table. His legs, bent at the knees, dangled over the end. They looped the bandages around his chest and arms; then secured his calves and ankles to the table legs.

Me, I’d have been squealing in a hummingbird’s heartbeat.

Nix? He was beginning to show concern. Flynn and Clint were so calm, so businesslike, it made him more nervous than if they were screaming and slapping and threatening.

Nix had a sheen of perspiration on his face. His grim lips moved involuntarily, semaphoring concern. But he remained silent.

Flynn sighed, “Hand me his socks, Winter.”

“Ew.”

I got a paper towel, wadded the white sweat socks up and passed them along. Flynn wasn’t so fastidious; he rolled them into a ball and squashed them into Nix’s mouth.

Nix started shaking his head from side to side, silently begging for redemption. But his resigned eyes acknowledged there was none.

Clint turned on an old-fashioned tape recorder; then bent closer, “You ready to talk?” I had Siri open Voice Memo — a redundancy recording to make sure we didn’t miss anything. Of course, I had no intention of video-memorializing the interrogation.

Nix just squeezed his eyes shut.

Flynn sighed again; he wasn’t getting his jollies from this. I knew it would be a repeat of that day in his New Canaan garage with Bobby Ray Guthrie. It didn’t bother me all that much then, and I wasn’t about to plead Eddie Nix’s case now.

Flynn dug his thumb into the soft tissue under Nix’s collarbone. That one spot where 26 nerves joined into the brachial plexus. As he crushed the nerve bundle, jamming it hard into the bone, he hit one specific nerve — the supraclavicular — which transmits sensations into the spinal cord.

Nix’s body flew up against the bandages. His torso and arms and legs strained against the bindings while his eyes bulged almost out of his head. Clint and I watched impassively, although my heart was hammering wildly.

Flynn sighed a third time and removed his thumb. He worked the socks out and said, “Ready?”

Nix just lay there, getting his breath back, staring at the ceiling. Unlike Guthrie, he hadn’t gotten an erection. Not sure what that meant, probably nothing.

Clint took the makeshift gag from Flynn and reinserted it. He said, “I’ll give it a go.”

Clint looked at Nix, giving him one last chance. Willing him to talk.

Then he hard-pressed his thumb into a dim mak point between the ribs, just below the pectoral muscle. As he steadily increased the pressure, Nix shrieked into the gag. His body started convulsing wildly, tears streamed down his face, mucus poured from his nostrils, and his muffled screams grew even louder.

Nix was broken. And none of us took any pleasure from it. Just a sort of bleak satisfaction that we would be able to learn what we could from him.

We kept him bound to that kitchen table as he began answering questions. First from Clint, then Flynn, then me.

Later, I leaned in, gently searching for where Clint had stubbed his thumb. I found the exact point of contact. I nodded to myself, “Pressure point.”

Clint and Flynn exchanged a glance.

I said, “Self-defense lessons. Kyusho-jutsu.”

What we had done to Nix was illegal, and almost certainly immoral. None of us was proud, yet I don’t think we were plagued by too much guilt. Not after the Grayhock Farm discovery. Clint had known Benny Chang; Flynn had known Bianca Uribe. I had sort of known them both.

Was it rationalization on my part? Oh, probably some. We had acted expediently, knowing that law enforcement wouldn’t have resorted to the tactics that we did.

Were we justified? Honestly, I’ll probably never know, not for certain. Partly it might depend on the rest of the outcome. On finding Madam X and whoever else in the Creed was committing those atrocities.

I might lose a little sleep, but not a lot. Pigs eat Pig.

After we had finished questioning Nix, Clint used that combat knife to slice the crepe bandages away. Without being told, Nix got dressed. Clint called a contact at the Minneapolis FBI office.

Half an hour later, two agents, one slender with an ill-fitting suit, one burly and pretty sporty looking, took Nix into custody. They’d coordinate with Sandra Fleming in Kansas City. And with the New York cops who were holding Bobby Ray Guthrie. He’d probably be turned over to the FBI as the Madam X case unfolded.

Clint told the agents, “Nix voluntarily told us that he arranged Benny Chang’s kidnapping. And had him transported to Kansas City.” He handed a copy of the audio-tape to one of the agents, the thin one named Carl Hawkins.

Hawkins looked thoughtful, “Snitches get stitches.”

“Nix was the essence of cooperation. Anxious to perform his civic duty.”

Everyone kept a straight face.

I said, “Sandra Fleming is handling the case in Kansas City. But it’s mostly being run out of J. Edgar.”

Flynn explained about Nix’s associate, Bobby Ray Guthrie. “Nix told us that Bobby Ray hired two thugs from Syracuse to kidnap a — quote Mexican spic chick — end of quote. They lived about an hour north of Binghamton and figured they could find one on the SUNY campus.”

I said, “The fuckers drugged her and drove 18 straight hours to the delivery point — Kansas City.”

The larger agent, Scott Peterson, shook his head, “A clusterfuck.”

As they were leaving, the slender agent hung back for a moment and turned to Clint, “Eighteen months.”

“Pulling the pin, Carl?”

“It’s time. And I’ll be available. If Vanguard is planning to replace Benny.”

“We will be. Reach out when you’re close.”

It was almost 9 at night. I felt different emotions. A little, lingering, regret about Nix, but more relief that it was over than anything. And, I felt a little soiled. But more than that, I was hungry. Famished.

Some basic matters. The three of us would be flying back to KC in the morning. We returned Flynn’s rental car to a neighborhood outlet. It was closed, but there was a slot for keys and paperwork.

Then Clint drove us to the Hotel Ivy in downtown Minneapolis. They had booked a room for me, which I appreciated. I wasn’t in the mood for a romp in the sack, and I didn’t want to stay with Flynn when Clint was with us.

A long shower, probably three long showers, and we met in the not very creatively named Bar at Hotel Ivy. I was tempted by the spa, but wanted a drink more. We ordered a pitcher of Hendrick’s gimlets, and savored the strong botanical flavor of the gin.

Clint said, “Flynn found a good Greek restaurant his first day in town.”

“Oh?”

Both boys knew about my healthy appetite.

Flynn said, “The Cop Network, never underestimate it.”

We took Lyft to a nondescript part of town. I looked around when we got out — a pawnshop, bail bondsman, two liquor stores and three bars. Two boarded-up storefronts. Not very promising, but I trusted the boys not to let me down.

The Southpaw had one of those faux speakeasy entrances. No sign, you had to know where to knock. After that, it got real. A small room, only eight tables. The bar was L-shaped with around 10 or 12 leather stools.

I liked it immediately. The lighting was flattering — dim, but not annoyingly so. The food turned out to be outstanding, but everything from the menu to the presentation was relaxed, easy, unpretentious.

Including the waiter. She wore a long black skirt, white tuxedo shirt and a rakish bowler.

She smiled at me, “Your friends have heard the pitch, so I’ll give you the shorthand version. We serve mostly locally sourced ingredients. The dishes are Greek but with a Nordic twist. The two owners worked in Oslo and Copenhagen. And they brought back a ... philosophy of Scandinavian preservation.”

It was one of the tastiest meals I’ve ever had. Maybe part of my appetite came from the relief that the Eddie Nix nastiness was behind us. But really, who could resist the starter course — silky calamari steamed with plum-stone oil and lacquered in caramelized butter?

The service was leisurely, allowing us plenty of time to savor each course.

Clams in tomato water with preserved bergamot. Chilled beeswax with caramelized goat’s whey and fermented honey.

When I took my first bite of lamb laced with a rose sauce, I vowed to come back here with Vanessa and Lina. And, following our waiter’s suggestion, when I sipped the Thymiopoulos Naoussa Vrana Petra, I knew we needed Amelia Baxter at the table too.

Our waiter smiled at my obvious enjoyment, “It’s the Xinomavro grape. From a single-plot vineyard.”

I shall return.

As we returned to the hotel through the midnight streets, Flynn made an interesting comment, “Cities sleep with the lights on. Like they’re afraid of the dark.”

Huh.

Generally speaking, I’ve been lucky in life. I was a genuinely happy person — by genetics, by fortunate choices, by luck. Oh sure, I’ve had down times. When Richie Sanders traded me in on a newer model. Bear helped me through that rough patch, so did Daddy. And, I had Walker to consider. Richie and I agreed that he was our top priority — we’d do everything we could to lessen the negative impact of the divorce.

And, in my chosen profession, I’ve had some sketchy moments. Getting shot at comes to mind.

But overall, I’ve been a happy girl. Daddy, then discovering boys, Bear, then marrying Vanessa. Good, strong relationships with Matt Striker, then Clint Callahan, and now Flynn Gallagher. Of course, through it all for the past 16 years, Walker Jennings.

I have enjoyed so many little incidents and adventures with him. Memories that make me smile, memories I can pull up anytime I want.

Example. Vanessa was invited to contribute a chapter to a pretty damned exclusive Italian cookbook. There were 18 chapters from 18 different food professionals. And 18 different regions of Italy. The combination launch party/celebration dinner was in San Francisco at the venerable St. Francis Hotel in Union Square.

Naturally, she invited Walk and me to join her for the weekend event. She said, “I’ll be in meetings and a conference most of Friday, you’ll just be stuck with him.”

Walker held his chin up high; he learned that from me. “She’ll be lucky if I let her hang with me.”

Thursday evening provided an uneventful flight on United. At the hotel, now a Westin, Walk tried to retain his composure when the bellhop brought us into the ostentatiously titled Grand Deluxe King guest room. There was a nice view of Union Square, but the lad was momentarily fixated on the king-sized bed. The only one in the room.

Seafood dinner at Sam’s. A long, long walk up and down the steep hills. Back to the Grand Deluxe King for showers, cognac, and bed. Vanessa put me in the middle. We were a little tired from the trip, but not so out of it that a little hanky-panky was off the menu. I masturbated Walk, slowly and lovingly, while Vanessa played with me from behind. Later, snuggled between the two people I loved most in the world, I just sighed with contentment as we drifted off.

Friday morning was chilly and overcast, but the concierge assured us, “The fog will burn off by 11, maybe a little later.”

I said, “Beach weather?”

Walk stared at me.

“Pleasant, but a little brisk — in the mid-70s.”

We left the hotel, Walk in the middle. He was wearing his favorite tee — navy with pink letters — My Sister Swallows . At breakfast, at Sears, a tourist mecca that had earned the crowds it attracted, Walk said, “Beach?”

Vanessa would be in meetings until a little before the launch party. I told Walk, “Swipe a couple of hotel towels.”

Vanessa nodded, “Buy some sunscreen too.”

Walk got a hopeful look on his mug, “Nude beach?”

I sighed with disappointment, “No, gutter-boy, we’re going to a state park, Gray Whale Cove.”

“Oh.” Then, “I better buy some shorts.”

Vanessa and I kept a straight face. Officially, nudity wasn’t allowed in California state parks, but I’d been out to the Bay Area before. Online research confirmed that on the northern section of Gray Whale Cove, nudity was common. In fact that section was named Edun Beach — ‘nude’ spelled backward.

The hotel provided a fully furnished picnic basket made of wicker. Ms. Hertz showed up right on time with a black Tesla 3. My first time in an EV. Even Walk, who had never expressed much interest in automobiles, was impressed.

The girl — Peg according to her name tag — told me, “She’s fully charged; you can easily go 260 miles.”

I eased us through the crowded downtown streets, getting used to quickness, the response. I headed south and west to Highway 1, and aimed toward Half Moon Bay, although we wouldn’t go that far. The Pacific glistened and sparkled to our right.

The fog was getting patchier as we drove, the sun starting to peek through. I parked in the gravel lot which was situated on the east side, and we scampered across the highway, Walk doing the toting. When we reached the steep wooden stairway to the beach, I had a moment of panic and tore open the lid to our picnic basket. Whew! They had remembered the corkscrew. Not the first rodeo for the St. Francis.

_Vignette:

There were about 40 or 50 people on the beach — a few families, a group of teenagers, several couples. Many single men, scattered and separate from each other. I kept walking toward the ocean, veering over to the right, to the north. We passed a line of rocks which formed sort of a wall and ... there we were.

Walk stopped short and stared. Not everyone was naked, but plenty of them were. Couples were strolling hand in hand. Lying side by side on towels. Groups of four, five, six. A lot of singletons, mostly guys, mostly naked.

Walk stared at me. We’d never been naked, the two of us, in public. I calmly pulled my teeshirt off, then my shorts, then my panties. Stuffed everything into the basket. I grinned, “C’mon on, bro.”

He set the basket down, still staring at me, and was done in a jiff. We found a spot with our backs to a boulder and spread out the towels. The basket weighed them down, although the breeze was gentle.

Two women came over, smiling tentatively. They were a little heavyset, nude, tanned all over. The shorter one said, “Mind if I take a picture?”

Photography wasn’t allowed, not without permission anyway. I said, “Wait a sec,” and pulled on huge sunglasses and a Hemingway fisherman’s cap. Walk did the same.

We stood there, hip to hip, and smiled. I was already turned on and our erotic display just added to my enjoyment.

The women thanked us, and moved on. We took off the caps and sunglasses. I said, “Let’s explore,” and put my arm around Walk’s waist.

He placed his arm over my shoulders, and I moved his hand over my boob. Nipples were already erect. He whispered, “Oh, God.”

We strolled slowly, enjoying the warming sun, the gentle roar of the surf, the gritty feel of the sand, the sights. But mostly I knew that we were taking pleasure in being seen. We didn’t mention it, but we sensed how good we looked. Walk, tall and trim, and golden. He’d finally grown into his body. Wide shoulders, flat tummy, trim waist, muscular thighs. Slender, but muscular.

A handsome face, just losing the last of its little-boy look. Thick blonde hair cut short. Blue, blue eyes.

And, of course, a gorgeous five or six inches swaying gently as he walked. I liked the scene, how we looked, was in fact proud that so many gals and guys were checking him out.

Myself, I was almost a mirror image. With some differences of course. Tits. My tiny pussy. My overall tan except for three little triangles. There was no question that we were closely related — the facial similarities were that obvious. But add in the matching body types ... well, bro and sis it was.

I felt a tingle, a deliciously naughty tingle.

As we strolled north, it was easy to spot the regulars. Tan from tip to toe. A certain languidness, an ease. Most interesting, to me anyway, were the gay couples — men and women. This being San Francisco, or technically the Bay Area, same-sex couples hadn’t rated a second glance for decades.

One guy, around 30 or so, lay with his head on his friend’s tummy, casually sucking his cock. He obviously wasn’t trying to make him cum — it was just a slow, loving act of affection.

Another couple — late teens, early 20s, a guy and a girl — stood there watching fondly. I glanced down, Walk was now fully erect, pointing up at the now almost cloudless sky. The girl glanced at us, then changed her focus from the blowjob to my beautiful, sexy boy.

I winked at her and waggled Walk’s cock in her direction. She giggled, and the guy who was being sucked, gave me a thumbs-up.

We continued ambling along, going as far north as we could, then circling back. We moved easily, going east and west, back and forth from the tideline to the cliff.

Mainly, I wanted to be seen. It was quietly thrilling to me to be so brazenly open with my little bro. Sometimes I fondled him, sometimes just kept my arm around his waist. But aware, always aware, that the two of us were stark fucking naked in front of men, women, teenagers.

Depending on the vibes, Walker sometimes introduced us, “My sister, Winter.” So proud. Hell, I was proud too. Proud of him, proud that I looked good enough, young enough, to pass for his sister.

Also depending on the vibes, he would openly fondle my boobs. We hadn’t discussed it, but I knew we both felt an extra zing from simply being in public.

We took a break for red wine and sandwiches. Country ham, sharp cheddar, spicy mustard. House-made chips. It was a quietly erotic interlude. My motor was still humming. Walk’s erection had abated slightly. Well, we’ll see about that.

“Walk.”

“Yes?”

“I want to suck you off. Right now. In front of all these folks.”

Boing!

As we packed up our picnic — always leave the beach cleaner than you found it — five boys in their late teens sidled closer. Trying achingly hard to be casual. These boyos were obviously noobs to Edun Beach. Curious, excited, nervous. A sweet combination of horny and bashful.

Being generous by nature, I leaned back, resting my head on Walk’s shoulder. I brought my left heel up to my butt and lay my right thigh across his leg. It wasn’t a beaver shot, not yet.

As I slowly moved my left leg further open, I said, “You boys come here often?”

To their credit, they were trying not to stare at my pussy.

“My second time.” “First time.” Mumbled responses.

Walk casually started twirling one of my nipples then the other.

I said, “My little brother has some nerve.”

Five stares.

I reached down and started stroking him, “That’s not all he has.”

Two of the boys were fondling themselves, not even aware of it. I was now fully turned on. I adored their attention, their awe, their avid hunger. I slowly, slowly, ran my hand up my thigh.

The boys shifted around, shuffling their feet, staring and staring and staring. Four of them were now fully erect. Two couples — one lesbian, one mixed — had seen the little crowd and joined the boys on the periphery.

Even in my agitated state, I was aware enough to ease up on Walk. I didn’t want him exploding, not quite yet. No restrictions on me however. I was openly caressing myself with my left hand. As I feathered my clit, I closed my eyes for a moment, sighed, and climaxed.