Chapter 1

The Gardenia Galleria was an upscale shopping mall in one of the more fashionable suburbs of Heritage County. Strategically located just off Highway 99-the main freeway through the metropolitan area-and surrounded by six-lane arteries that allowed access with a minimum of traffic jams, it was the mall to shop in. People came from all over the region to patronize the four major department stores that anchored the mall, or the dozens of smaller specialty shops that gave it character. The parking lot surrounding the Gardenia Galleria contained over two thousand parking slots, all connected by a beltway that circled the outside. During business hours, even on the slowest of shopping days, this parking lot was typically at least three-quarters full. During the Christmas season, the Gardenia Police Department had to assist with traffic control and shuttle buses were often used to ship patrons in from other parking lots several miles away.

On this particular Saturday evening in late May, however, the parking lot of Gardenia Galleria was almost completely deserted. It was 9:45 PM and the mall was now closed. All of the patrons had long since departed with their purchases, and all of the employees had gone home. Even the security force-which cruised around in small pick-up trucks with orange light bars mounted on the roof-had shut down operations for the night. The only activity to be seen was a couple of teenage skateboarders practicing maneuvers on some of the decorative planters.

Behind Nordstrom's Department Store, in a dark recess where customers never came, even when the mall was open, was the loading dock. A concrete inlet that dipped down against the loading doors, it was wide enough for two trailers to park side by side. Currently there was one trailer there-a delivery of overpriced clothing from Malaysia. It had not been unloaded by closing time. In the space where another trailer would go was a six-year-old Toyota Corolla, its engine off, the windows more than a little steamy.

Inside the car, in the front seat, were two employees of Nordstrom's Department Store who had elected not to go home just yet. Kyle Swanson was a nineteen-year-old salesman in the electronics department. Samantha Isaacson was a seventeen-year-old clerk in the shoe department. The two of them had been dating each other for nearly four months now-the longest boyfriend/girlfriend relationship either had ever been involved in. They liked to think they were in love with each other, that they would one day marry, and perhaps it was even true. It was one of those things that time would tell. At the moment, however, marriage was the last thing on Kyle's mind. Samantha's alluring body was pressed up against his tighter than it ever had been before. He could feel her ample breasts pushing into his chest as they leaned towards each other across the center console. His mouth was pressed to hers, his tongue sliding in and out, dancing with her softer tongue, exchanging saliva, swirling and probing. She was kissing him back with unmasked passion, the likes of which she had rarely displayed in the past. His left hand was resting on her knee. Like the rest of her legs, it was clad in nylon. Her black, conservative skirt, which hung to mid-calf when she was standing, had worked its way up to mid-thigh, and those lovely thighs were slightly parted in a manner that was just suggestive enough to make him think that tonight might be the night he finally got somewhere with her.

"Oh, Lord," Samantha breathed, breaking the kiss for an instant. She was breathing very heavily, her blue eyes shining from behind her glasses. "We should stop, Kyle. Don't you think?"

Kyle was not discouraged by her words, not in the least. On the contrary, they excited him. She had actually taken the Lord's name in vain in response to what he was doing to her. And she didn't even realize she had done it. As the oldest daughter in a strict Mormon family, that was remarkable indeed. He had never heard her say anything stronger than "Oh, gosh" or "Jiminy Crickets" in the past.

"I love kissing you, Sam," he said, leaning forward again, letting his tongue probe out and lick her pouting lower lip. "Don't you like kissing me?"

"Yes," she said, almost moaned. "Oh yes."

He leaned into her again, attacking her lips with his, sliding his tongue back into her mouth. His hand slid up a few more inches on her leg, onto the lower part of her thigh. His fingertips caressed the nylon there. She made no attempt to stop him. His right hand he slid up her back, passing over the protrusion of her bra strap beneath the white, button-up blouse she wore. He slid it under the locks of her golden blonde hair and onto the skin of the back of her neck. He caressed her gently here. She cooed into his mouth and her legs came apart a little bit more, unconsciously he was sure, but apart nonetheless. Her hands were on his back, stroking up and down through his shirt, her nails lightly scratching at him.

When he moved his mouth from her lips to the side of her neck and began to kiss and nibble at the soft skin there, she melted. Her head went back, exposing more skin for him to pleasure. Her eyes closed in an expression of surrender. Her arms tightened around his back. Her legs fell open just a little bit more. Kyle knew she was as turned on as she had ever been before. He was tempted to try sliding his hand further up her leg, possibly to the junction between them. He longed to feel the wetness he knew had to be there, to feel the heat, to transfer the odor of her musk to his fingertips. But he had been in enough make-out session with Samantha to know that might be pushing things too quickly. Samantha was determined to follow the teachings of her church and save herself for her future husband on her wedding night. If he pushed her too fast she would clam up in an instant, pushing him away, her passion deflating like a life raft with a bullet hole in it. She probably wasn't ready to be touched between the legs. But maybe... just maybe... she was ready to be touched somewhere else.

With reluctance, he removed his hand from her leg and slowly placed it on her upper abdomen, just below the swell of her softball-sized breasts. He scratched lightly at her here for a moment, feeling the cotton of her blouse, feeling the firm skin beneath it, feeling the way her diaphragm was heaving up and down with her excited breathing. He let the hand move upward, inching it northward, until, at last, he felt the underswell of her right breast just touching his knuckles. She made no objection to his actions, if fact, it seemed as he'd heard a little moan come from her mouth, had felt her twist a little in his arms, trying to increase the contact. He gave another soft nibble at her neck and let his hand move upward, passing over the underswell and directly onto the breast itself. This time, the moan was quite clear, as was the push towards him. He could not believe his luck. He was cupping her tit and she was moaning! She was pushing into him! She liked it!

He moved his lips back to hers and started kissing her again, driving his tongue further into her mouth than ever before. She kissed back enthusiastically, almost drooling in her passion. He cupped the breast a few times, running his hand up and down, pressing it from all angles. It was as soft and squeezable as he'd always imagined it would be, the epitome of femininity. He let his right hand come down from her neck, across her shoulder, and down to her chest. It found her left breast and cupped it as well. It was as soft and sensuous as its twin and Samantha moaned again as he felt it up.

Encouraged, he let his right hand twist inward, his fingertips probing for the gap between the buttons on her blouse. Samantha always wore blouses and skirts to work and he had spied fleeting views of her white bras and the pale pinkness of the tops of her breasts on many occasions between these gaps when she twisted her body just right. Now he exploited the opening, going for tactile stimulation instead of visible. His plan was successful. He gently pushed his index and middle finger through and the tips of them were touching her bra near the top. She moaned again, her tongue driving harder into his mouth, telling him that he needn't stop just yet.

He let the fingertips roam up and down, touching everything they could reach. On the downward end of their extension, he felt her fat nipple pushing through the cotton of the bra insistently, demanding attention. He stroked it a few times, eliciting more moans, more passionate kisses. It was the upward end of his probing, however, that truly excited him. For the first time in their relationship, he found himself touching the bare skin of her breast. True, it was high on her breast, well north of the nipple, but it was her tit! The skin was soft and silky. He ran his fingers back and forth along the border between bra and skin, pushing at it and finally managing to get a few millimeters beneath. She did not try to stop him.

He began running his fingertips into the bra itself, worming them in from the top. With each stroke, a little more flesh was touched, a little more of her tit was opened to his exploration. She was still into it, obviously liking what he was doing to her, obviously not ready to call a halt to things yet. He tried to probe further, to reach his fingertips down far enough to touch her bare nipple. If he could get that nipple in his hands, she would be his. He was certain of it. But the gap between her buttons was not wide enough to allow his hand in that far. No matter how hard he stretched his middle finger out, no matter at what angle he dipped it, he could not reach the nipple. He thought he felt the edge of her areola at the far end of the stretch, but that might be nothing more than wishful thinking. He needed to get his hand in there more.

He pushed it forward, meeting nothing but tough resistance around the back of his fingers from the material of her shirt. He tried squirming and twisting it, trying to drive it in further, and this seemed to work. His hand went in a few more centimeters, a few more millimeters. Just a bit more and he would feel nipple. Just a bit more.

There was an alarming sound of cotton starting to rip. They both heard it, even over the sound of music coming from his stereo system, even over their enthusiastic pants, even over the slurping sound of their tongues making wet contact. She suddenly broke the kiss.

"You're gonna rip my blouse," she hissed at him.

"Sorry," he mumbled, figuring he'd blown it, that the encounter he'd so carefully plotted was now coming to an end.

But Samantha surprised him. She smiled and reached down to the button around his hand. With a few manipulations of her manicured nails, she undid it, widening the gap to twice its size. "There," she said. "Is that better?"

"Yeah," he said, gazing down at what was revealed. Though the light was dim, there was enough moonlight and ambient lighting from a nearby floodlight that he could see her entire, bra-encased tit. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Their mouths came back together and his hand went inside her shirt. Now he was able to get three fingers inside the top of her bra. He probed downward and within a few seconds, the nipple was his. She moaned as he touched it, as he began twirling it and stroking it.

"Oh, Lord," she said again. "Oh, sweet Lord."

"You know it," he mumbled into her mouth, driving his tongue in further.

He tweaked the nipple up and down, back and forth, feeling its dimensions. It was about the diameter of a dime and sticking up more than half an inch from the areola. Its surface was covered with ridges that were both rough and soft at the same time. It was obvious she was enjoying his attentions. She was moaning almost continuously into his mouth. He was enjoying it as well. His penis was a rigid pole within his work slacks, throbbing in the intensity of its yearning for relief.

He dropped his left hand into his lap for a moment, giving his cock a brief squeeze and adjusting it to a more comfortable position. Once that was done, he put his hand back on her right leg, just above the knee. Her legs were open a little more now and he slid his fingers slowly upward, under the pulled-up hem of her skirt, onto her middle thigh, touching the nylon that covered it, feeling the muscles beneath. He twisted the hand inward, going to the inner part of the thigh. And still, she was not stopping him.

Her hands, meanwhile, dropped down his body too, going to his lower back, pausing there for a few moments, and then sliding slowly down to the top of his ass. She cupped him through his pants, her movements hesitant but full of passion. Now it was he who moaned.

He slid his left hand further up her thigh, moving more quickly now, driven by lust. He was now on the upper thigh, just inches from her heavenly junction. He went for broke, twisting his hand around and moving his fingertips to her crotch. He felt the material covering her vaginal area, the panty portion of the pantyhose. It was hot to the touch and very damp. He ran his fingers up and down, transferring that moisture to the tips, feeling, for the briefest of instances, the roughness of her pubic hair beneath and the outline of her swollen vaginal lips.

"Oh... God..." she panted, feeling his touch. "Oh, sweet Lord!"

And then, just as he was sensing the kill, just as he thought he was about to finally make some headway, she broke the kiss and put her hands on his shoulder, pushing him away from her.

"We have to stop!" she said breathlessly, alarm in her voice.

"Stop?" he asked, trembling in his desire. "Why? Didn't you like it?"

She nodded vigorously. "That's why we have to stop. Things are moving too fast. I'm getting carried away."

"There's nothing wrong with getting carried away," he said, trying to lean in and kiss her again.

But she was having none of that. "No," she said firmly, closing her legs. "We can't!"

He slowly backed off, a sigh of frustration coming from his mouth, a sigh Samantha picked up on.

"I'm sorry," she told him gently. "But you know I just can't do this. I was getting overcome by lust. So were you."

Overcome by lust. That, he knew, was not something Samantha had come up with on her own. It was from a guidebook for Mormon teenagers produced by the church, a pamphlet full of recommendations of proper dating practices and what pitfalls to avoid, particularly with non-Mormon types. Samantha's mother had given him a copy of it the first time she'd brought him home to meet her. Dating was supposed to be done only with other people present. Affection was supposed to be limited to handholding or touches "outside the strike zone," meaning above the shoulders and below the knees. Kissing was considered an acceptable activity when things were very serious between a young man and a young woman, but the touching of lips together was supposed to adhere to the "1.2 second rule", which meant it was not to last longer than that. French kissing or passionate kissing was forbidden, as was being alone together unsupervised, engaging in any conversation that might arouse sexual feelings, and, most assuredly, anything that could be described as "petting". Such things, the pamphlet assured its audience, put you in danger of being "overcome by lust." The consequences of that were considered quite grave.

"It's not lust," Kyle assured her. "It's more than that, Sam. Much more than that. Don't you feel it?"

She was still so flushed and tingling with sexual excitement that his words sounded reasonable to her. "Yes," she whispered. "I felt it."

"You're so beautiful," he told her, reaching out and stroking the side of her face. It was perhaps the first church-sanctioned show of affection he'd performed all night. "I just like being with you, kissing you... touching you..."

"Oh," she melted, leaning forward and giving him a kiss on the lips. It was not exactly a passionate kiss, but it was not exactly a chaste one either.

He took her hand in his and slowly lowered it to his lap, placing her palm directly on the bulging protrusion of his turgid member. "Do you feel that?" he asked her.

"I shouldn't," she said, though she made no move to pull her hand away.

"Do you feel how hard I am?" he asked her. "That's what kissing you and touching you has done to me. You did that to me, Sam. You and your beautiful body."

"Oh, Lord," she said, her voice breaking, her hand making an experimental squeeze of what was beneath his pants. It was obvious she had never touched one before-had possibly not even seen one before, at least not apart from watching her younger brothers get their diapers changed (and even this visualization, Kyle knew, was discouraged by the church).

"It really needs some relief," Kyle whispered to her.

"Re... Relief?"

He nodded. "I need to come, Sam. I need it so bad it hurts. Will you help me?"

She licked her lips nervously, a struggle obviously going on behind her eyes. She was intrigued by the thought of helping him, he could tell. But her upbringing was pulling her in the other direction.

"How?" she finally asked. "I'm not going to, you know, kiss it or anything. We're not allowed to do that even after marriage."

"You don't have to kiss it," he assured her. "You could just use your hand on it. Have you ever heard of a hand job?"

"Yeah," she whispered. "I've heard of it."

He reached down with his hands and slowly undid his belt buckle, letting it fall open. He then undid the snap on his slacks. Her hand remained over the bulge of his erection, her eyes looking downward at what he was doing. Encouraged, he slid down his zipper, revealing his blue bikini boxers. There was a large wet spot from pre-come seepage in the front of them. He put his fingers inside the waistband and pushed down. His hardness popped out, standing straight and tall, as swollen and congested as it ever got.