Archive-name: Control/heat1to4.txt

Archive-author: 

Archive-title: The Heat - (Parts 1-4 of 8)

 



                                     1

 

     On July 11th, the temperature in downtown Willyville topped 94

degrees, a considerable jump from the high of 78 the previous day. The high

pressure area that Bob Katt, the weather forcaster for TV station KNUT, had

been predicting all week had finally arrived. The sun sat hot and brassy in

a sky devoid of clouds. Bob Katt had predicted that the temperature would

only increase for the rest of the week, at least. The heat wave had begun.

 

     Three days later the temperature broke 100 and everybody knew the heat

was here to stay. The air was hot and heavy. Those unfortunate enough to be

working outside or without benefit of air conditioning groaned and cursed

the sun, giver of all life and bringer of all misery.

 

     Skin became a much more common sight as uncomfortable humans stripped

down to the bare neccessities, if not farther, in search of some relief. As

clothes fell away, so did inhibitions as the human, the horniest animal on

earth (who was actually capable of becoming sexually aroused at the mere

sight of the uncovered body of a fellow human of the preferred sex! Imagine

that!) began to follow the urges that nature had imbued them and that they

themselves had honed to a fine and wonderous art.

 

     In other words, once the night cooled off, they started fucking like

rabbits.

 

     But human nature can be a two edged sword, and while one edge was

sweet, the other was very bitter indeed. Hot weather and its attendant ills

caused tempers to flare where they otherwise would have been held with

discretion. Many great home truths, which had been considerately

unmentioned by friends, lovers, relatives, etc., suddenly came out in full

force with the expected arguments and fights following. Frustration at the

endless discomfort caused human to strike out at fellow human in a futile

substitute for lashing back at the true source of their aggravation, a safe

93 million miles out of reach. The local constabulary spent a great portion

of their time quelling these arguments. Of course, being human and just as

uncomfortable as everybody else, their tempers were somewhat shorter than

they would normally have been, and guess who they took it out on? Quite a

number of offenders made their way to the local lockup by way of the local

emergency room.

 

     But all of this was simply human nature, and none of it was very

serious, at least not on a grand scale. Civilization had survived much

worse. But on a personal level some of the catastropies were very serious.

Some lives were changed completely. One such person who'd had his life

changed by the heat was Harold Sykes. And here's what happened...

 

 

 

                                    ---

 

     The moon poured in through the open window, flooding the bedroom with

an eerie half light. The air was warm, a pleasant 75 degrees. Perfect

temperature for nudity. Cindi settled back on the pillow with a satisfied

sigh of pleasure not yet faded to memory. Harold still kneeled on the bed

between her knees, his erection pounding almost painfully against his

belly. The moonlight spilled across her nude, fluid form, and he lovingly

eyed her firm, small breasts, still hard nippled in the aftermath of her

orgasm. His eyes roamed down her smooth, taut belly to the wiry mass of her

pubic hair, where he had but moments ago spent so much time carefully and

artistically bringing her to a powerful climax. Whatever else you could say

about his performance in the sack, he knew how to give head. It was one of

the skills he was especially proud of.

 

     But enough wool-gathering (bad pun intended). Harold leaned forward,

placing his hands on the bed on either side of her. He kissed her fully and

deeply as he gently lowered his weight onto her. For a moment they simply

lay there, as he savored the full body contact, the feel of her naked skin

against his own. Then he raised his hips and she gently guided him into

her.

 

     For Harold, at least, no sensation in the world could ever compare to

the warm, slinky feeling of penetration. He thrust deep, and her hips moved

in response. His excitement towered to new heights, and his balls ached for

release. Take it slow, take it slow. He kissed her again and ran his hand

along her side, from thigh to shoulder, feeling, touching, loving.

 

     He began to pump in a slow sinuous rhythem, her hips moving with his.

Her legs raised and locked around his waist as her hands moved along his

back. Her breathing became short and rapid, and Harold knew she was

building to another orgasm. With each thrust, his own pleasure mounted to a

new height until finally he poised, breathless, at the brink. Too soon, too

soon...

 

 

     Too late. He cried out as his seed shot into the warm depths of her

body. Face straining, he pumped again, one last time, trying to squeeze

what last litle bit of feeling might be left after that almost painful

explosion of pleasure. Then he collapsed on top of her, exhausted.

 

     For an endless time he lay, gathering strength. Finally it soaked into

his sated conciousness that something was wrong. Cindi lay beneath him

wooden, unmoving. He looked down into eyes that stared back with cold fury.

"What- what's the matter?"

 

     The anger in her eyes flared as she placed her hands on his chest and

pushed him off. Her strength was surprising, and Harold fairly flew against

the wall by the bed. Blinking back stars, he looked at her in confusion.

 

     "God dammit!" she yelled.

 

     Frightened now, Harold could only gasp, "What... what..."

 

     "You didn't even try to make it last!" Hands on hips, her bare breasts

jiggled fetchingly as she shouted. But Harold wasn't exactly fetched at the

moment.

 

     "I sure did try! It's not my fault-"

 

     "The fuck it isn't! You don't even TRY!" she yelled, "Two pumps, a

tickle, and a squirt and that's all you're ever good for! I'm sick of it!"

 

     What the fuck was this? It was hard to believe she had been so

intimate and caring a minute before. Miss Jekyl had just turned into a

raving Miss Hyde and Harold was far too stunned to properly defend himself.

"You mean to say you haven't gotten any enjoyment out of tonight?"

 

     "Ha!" She was gathering her clothes and putting them on now. "Hasn't

it ever occurred to you that I might get a little tired of being frigged

and licked every single night? I want a MAN, dammit! Not some little boy

who shoots his wad five seconds after he gets his pants off!"

 

     He watched, unbelieving, as she stomped around the room. This was the

woman he had been so in lust with the last few weeks? Was he really such a

terrible lover? "Why are you doing this to me?"

 

     "You did it to yourself." she snapped. She was fully dressed by now.

Shouldering her handbag, she turned to him. "I'm leaving now. Until you

learn how to fuck, don't bother calling me." Her pretty features twisted

into an ugly ironic smile, "Have a nice life."

 

     And then she left. Harold stared at the door a long time, his stomach

churning along with his mind. Cindi had deliberately set about to hurt him

in the worst way she possibly could. The only thought that kept running

through his head was WHY?

 

     The sound of a car starting and pulling out floated in through the

bedroom window. Somehow this sound seemed to bring reality back into focus

and his mind started working again. With a snarl he jumped off the bed and

ran to the window, throwing the curtains aside.

 

     He screamed something out the window, causing lights to come on all

over the neighborhood: "YOU FUCKING BITCH!"

 

     He ducked back inside before anybody could see him, collapsing back on

the bed. Nothing was resolved, and some painful issues would have to be

dealt with in the near future.

 

     But he had to admit that, for the moment, he felt a little better.

 

 

 

 

                                     2

 

     The days seemed to grow longer, and if possible, hotter. Bob Katt

recieved the usual number of crank letters and calls demanding he do

something about the heat. He even went so far as to run a videotape of an

indian rain dance on his show. No such luck, and the local indian community

inundated KNUT with calls demanding Bob's resignation for broadcasting

racist material. A couple dozen even went so far as to picket the station's

parking lot. It was noted by many that some of the placards bearing the

station's call sign, the N and the U were transposed, though whether this

was accidental or intentional was unclear. Bob was beginning to wonder if

it was time for that long overdue vacation. The station manager wondered

the same thing.

 

     The growing membership of the Willyville Nudist Society (formed

somewhere around July 11th) petitioned the mayor's office to temporarily

modify the laws against public indecency so as to allow the nudists to

pursue their own version of 'personal freedom'. A story about it appeared

in the local newspaper, and a day later the mayor's office recieved over a

thousand anonymous letters in support of the petition. However, almost 80%

of those letters were mimeographed in the same writing, unsigned, and sent

without return addresses. Somebody had been very busy, indeed. There was no

comment from the mayor's office about the whole situation. Rumor had it he

had snuck out of town for a long overdue vacation...

 

 

                                    ---

 

     For Harold Sykes, the usual lunacy of Willyville passed over him

without notice as his days stretched into a grey cloud of depression. At

work he hardly spoke, and when he went home he drew the blinds and sat in

the stifling heat staring at a blank wall. When he saw a pretty girl out on

the street he would avert his eyes until she passed by. When his friends at

work spoke to him he would always jump, as if jolted from some private

world. When asked about his change of behavior, he would simply dismiss it

as the aftermath of a breakup. But deep inside his heart ached and he spent

long, sleepless nights wondering who Cindi might be with and what they

might be doing and being certain that she was having a far, far better time

now than she had ever had with him. His depression grew deeper and deeper

and he knew that over the horizon lay only more dark clouds.

 

     The situation came to a head when Harold nearly throttled a co-worker

for singing "Zipity-Doo-Da" one morning after announcing his engagement.

After explaining to his supervisor (and the police officer) that he had

been under a lot of stress lately, he was awarded with a two-week (unpaid)

vacation and the advice to see a psychiatrist. Soon.

 

     Instead he sat at home, watching "Love Boat" reruns and drinking some

horrible beer and lemonade concotion bottled in New Jersey. Masochism was

the word of the day here.

 

     He was idly (and a bit drunkenly) trying to decide whether to use a

sledgehammer or a shotgun on the TV set when the phone rang.

 

     The harsh, obnoxious sound grated in his ears, pulling him from the

fantasy that enveloped him. A part of him begged to answer the phone, as

usual, to see who would be calling. The rest of him said screw it, why

bother?

 

     Finally, long ingrained habit won out. He lurched over to the phone

and yanked the reciever off the cradle. Placing it to his mouth, he offered

the most cheery greeting his jangled mind could come up with.

 

     "Go fuck yourself."

 

     There was moment's hesitation before a familiar male voice came out of

the other end. "Harold! How ya doin'?"

 

     "Hi, Tom." Harold sighed. Tom was Harold's best friend and a devout

hedonist, to boot. "I'm doing fine. Just don't feel like getting out much

in this heat, is all."

 

     "Yeah, right." Tom said in a voice that made it perfectly clear he

didn't believe a word of it. "Well, shit, man, you need to get out

sometimes, before you start to grow cobwebs or something. And I got just

the thing..."

 

     Harold silently groaned and rubbeed his temples. The only thing he

wanted was to be left alone. One of Tom's 'just the thing' ideas was the

last thing he needed right now. "Uh, look, maybe later-"

 

     "Later my ass!" The voice on the other end roared. "I know what

happened. Kelly told me." Harold's eyes widened but he really wasn't

surprised. He fully expected Cindi to blab to everyone who would sit still

long enough to listen. He tried to imagine that Cindy was sitting in front

of him instead of the TV and suddenly his hands fairly itched for that

sledgehammer.

 

     Tom continued, "Shit, man, something like that would've killed me.

Cindi has got to be the most twisted bitch I have ever heard of. Nobody has

a right to do that to somebody else."

 

     "Yeah, I ain't too happy about it either. But I can't do anything, so

how about I call you later-"

 

     "I ain't done yet." Tom interrupted firmly. "You've got to get out of

there and back into circulation. You stay in that dark house much longer,

you're going to do something stupid." Harold felt a sudden shock. What had

he been thinking? He had twelve payments to go on the TV yet. Suddenly the

beer and lemonade in his stomach began to churn.

 

     "Look, Harold, I'm your buddy. It hurts me to see what she's done to

you. I wanna help, and I think I know the best way to do it. There's a

party going on Saturday afternoon at this place I know over in Squirrel

Heights. Right off Wanker street. The whole gang's gonna be there, along

with a bunch of other people I don't know. Lots of available girls, I hear.

Hoping to add a couple to my collection myself. I think you ought to go

with me. Keep me from getting in too much trouble."

 

     Harold's voice was thick as he struggled with his gorge. "I... I don't

know..."

 

     "Aw, c'mon. I want you there. You don't have to do anything or talk to

anybody if you don't want. Just soak up some rays and good feelings. I

ain't heard of anybody going away from a West Side Party feeling bad."

 

     "Well..."

 

     "It's settled, then." Tom concluded, perhaps a bit prematurely. "I'll

be by about noon Saturday, and you can ride with me. I know you don't

drink, and I could use somebody sober to drive me home. If I go home at

all. If not, you can use the car. Sound good?"

 

     Harold had his voice under control and was actually feeling a bit

better. Tom's nonstop talking had distracted him from the full impact of

the crisis, and his depression was beginning to lift a bit. "Sure, why not?

Should I bring anything?"

 

     "Toothbrush and a change of shorts, maybe."

 

     They talked for a few more minutes and when Harold finally hung up, he

felt immensely better. He had felt so alone not long ago. It was good to be

reminded he had friends. Maybe with their help he could pull through this

depression and come out a whole human being once again. But that was still

a ways off.

 

     In the meantime, he tidied the house up. Lastly he came to the

collection of bottles from his binge that morning. He was astonished to

discover how much of that stuff he had drunk. Thinking about it reminded

him just how awful the stuff really was. He hiccuped once and ran for the

bathroom, hand over his mouth.

 

     He almost made it.

 

 

 

 

                                     3

 

     The week wore on and Willyville got even hotter, if such a thing was

possible. It also got weirder, and many had considered that impossible,

too.

 

     During the daytime the streets were like that of a ghost town, as

everybody remained inside with shades closed to beat the heat.

Air-conditioners became the number one most stolen item in the city,

beating out televisions by a wide margin. It made sense of a sort, after

all, you don't even need to get inside the house to steal one. Many a

homeowner returned from work in the evening to find a large hole in the

wall where the family's most cherished appliance once rested and

subsequently broke down in tears. However, the chief of police had a sudden

brainstorm that guaranteed a quick end to this new and despicable crime

wave. He promptly instructed all four hospitals in the Willyville area to

inform the police of any emergency room cases involving hernias or slipped

discs. When the anxious media questoned the chief of police on this new

tactic, he simply replied that the results so far were "interesting".

 

     In other news, weather forcaster Bob Katt had been suspended for

appearing on his show wearing boxer shorts, a tie, and nothing else. It

seems the building's air-conditioning system had been stolen the previous

night (an impressive feat in itself, considering that the compressor alone

weighed half a ton) and Bob had refused to work in a suit in the stifling

heat. So he had walked into the studio, dressed only in his skivvies, and

up in front of the camera before any of the stunned studio crew could even

think of stopping him. Of course, it would have been very bad form to yank

him off the camera, so they simply let him do his broadcast. Once he was

finished he was greeted by a purple faced station manager. Despite the

indian pressure groups, Bob was still very popular in Willyville, so he was

not fired on the spot.

 

     Instead, the station manager sent him on a long overdue vacation...

 

 

                                    ---

 

     Saturday dawned bright, clear, and warm (surprise, surprise!). Harold

was up with the sun, mostly because he hadn't slept at all the previous

night. His stomach was a tight little knot and his heart would not stop

pounding. He was having second thoughts about the party. Harold Sykes had

never been a party animal, and recent... events... had convinced him that

he would be very wise to stay away from certain segments of the human race

(read: female) for a long time to come. In fact, now that he thought about

it, he was rather frightened of them. After all, if he couldn't keep Cindi

happy, would he be able to keep any woman happy? And there would be lots of

girls there, probably all laughing at him. Why go?

 

     Then he thought about his depression of the last couple weeks. Tom had

a point: right or wrong, he had to do something.

 

     Tom came by at 2:30 and picked Harold up. As they drove over to

Squirrel Heights, Tom did most of the talking. Harold had lapsed into a

moody silence, soaking up Tom's words and saying almost something in

return. If Tom noticed, he didn't show it as he kept up a steady monologue

all the way to the house.

 

 

     The Squirrel Heights Boarding house was a dumpy three story affair

sitting in front of about two acres of worn out farmland. The place was run

by an aging ex-stockbroker named Michael Wilburn, who believed in free

expression of everything and threw wild parties as often as the house's

budget would allow. Some of the parties were solely for the house's

inhabitants, but most of them were for whoever wanted to come. Booze and

most kinds of drugs generally circulated freely, and Harold had heard

rumors even more outrageous than that. All in all, it was pretty

intimidating to an introvert like Harold, and as he stepped out of Tom's

car and looked at the peeling gray mass of the boarding house looming over

him, and the virtual sea of cars surrounding it, he knew he had made a

mistake. He as much as said so to Tom, who ignored him completely.

 

     The affair was already in progress, as he discovered when Tom led him

around the back of the house. There must have been almost a hundred people

there, engaged in all manner of outdoor activities. People everywhere,

talking, yelling, running, horsing around, just generally having a good

time. A table had been set up by the back door, and there was somebody

serving booze and food to an endlessly regenerating queue.

 

     Harold looked around and noticed that Tom had abandoned him and was

nowhere in sight. For an instant he almost panicked and yelled for Tom,

then his rational mind took over. What's your problem? it said. You're an

adult, you don't need a keeper.

 

     So Harold decided to walk around and see what he could see.

 

     In one corner a net had been set up for a vollyball game. There was a

team on each side, if a pushing, laughing, staggering group of people could

be called a team. Harold stood off to one side with a small group of

spectators and watched. All of a sudden his attention had been captured by

one particular member of one team.

 

     She wasn't tall, maybe five seven or so, buxom, and maybe a few pounds

overweight. Which, as far as Harold was concerned, made her all the more

nicely rounded. Her hair was blonde and fell down past her shoulders. Her

face was pretty, but not spectacularly so. What had really caught Harold's

attention was what she was wearing, or, more to the point, not wearing. She

was dressed in frayed cutoff jeans that were so tight they had split along

the sides halfway up her hips, and a string bikini top that struggled

valiantly to hold up under the weight of enormous breasts. Harold glanced

around and saw that she had the attention of pretty much every man in the

crowd.

 

     His heart fluttered as he watched her move, and he couldn't help but

wonder what it would be like to take her to bed. He imagined her long hair

spread out over the pillow, glimmering faintly in the moonlight, those

magnificent breasts moving in slow liquid motion as she arched her back in

sheer pleasure, her frenzied gasps as she reached a sudden and powerful

orgasm...

 

     Harold shook his head to clear it. Get real, he told himself. Someone

like that certainly already has a boyfriend, and even if she didn't, why

should she be interested in somebody like him? He turned around and began

to make his way back towards the house.

 

     Sudden catcalls and whistles made him turn around again. She was

sitting on the grass, apparently having just fallen. When she landed, the

overburdened top string of her bikini had given way, exposing her for all

the world to see.

 

     He could not help but stare. Her nipples stood out hard, the aurioles

colored light rose pink. He ached to take them in his mouth, to feel their

soft but firm weight in his hands. Then he looked up and saw she was

staring directly at him.

 

     He locked eyes with her and suddenly his face turned beet red. Why, he

didn't know, because surely every other male here was staring and thinking

the same thoughts. She made no move to cover herself, she just sat there,

challenging him with her gaze.

 

     Finally, Harold turned and pushed his way through the crowd. His heart

was pounding in his ears and his balls, denied their release, ached

miserably. He still had a raging hard-on and kept his hands in his pockets

to conceal it. He felt sick, and ashamed. And he wanted to leave this

instant.

 

     But that stare kept coming back to him. On reflection, he felt there

was more than just a challenge in her eyes. What, he didn't know, but he

somehow knew it. It was almost as if a spark had passed between them.

Undoubtedly it was just his overworked imagination, but...

 

     He felt as if she wanted him, too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                     4

 

     Day gave way to night, as days usually do, and slowly Willyville began

to cool off. People moved out of their stifling houses (except for those

who hadn't had their air-conditioning stolen yet) and into their back

yards. They brought TV trays, TV's, barbecues, bedrolls, and just generally

prepared to enjoy the night in relative coolness.

 

     All over Willyville the night was alive with the sound of voices,

televisions, stereos, lustful moans and the other noises of humans enjoying

themselves outdoors. With one exception. In Squirrel Heights, all was

quiet. The place seemed deserted, in fact. Virtually all human life in the

area had gravitated to one spot. At the Squirrel Heights boarding house,

when night fell, the real party began...

 

 

                                    ---

 

     Harold Sykes hadn't left the party like he planned, although he came

awful damn close to doing so when he spotted Cindi in the crowd. But, in

the end, the thought of going back to his lonely, empty, stuffy house was

just too much. So instead he wandered around the yard, just watching the

extraordinary panorama of human activity taking place before him.

 

     Eventually he found a peaceful spot on the back porch where he just

sat and watched the sun set. Tom came by and asked him how he was doing.

 

     "Better." sighed Harold, "I really feel better."

 

     Tom gave him a wink. "You may be feeling better than that before the

night's over, old buddy." and sauntered off before Harold could say

anything.

 

     Now what was that supposed to mean?

 

 

     As it got dark, the party outside thinned out. A few left, spinning

their wheels in the gravel lot out front, but most just went inside the

house. Probably gonna booze it up good, Harold thought, Although it looked

to him like they had been boozing more than adequetely already. Harold

didn't feel like drinking very much, especially after his binge the other

day. Drugs didn't hold much of an attraction for him, either. Just sitting

there, alone with his thoughts, seemed to do quite a bit for him.

 

     Eventually he awoke from his musings and was startled to find he was

alone. With a sigh he got up and went in through the back door.

 

     The back hallway was unlit. There was the low murmur of voices and

music coming from somewhere ahead. He could make out dim light from around

a corner in the distance. Cautiously he made his way down the hallway,

hoping nothing solid was in the way of his shins.

 

     Eventually he made his way to the light, and when he turned the corner

he recieved the shock of his life.

 

     The front room was spacious and poorly lit. But the light was more

than adequete for Harold to see what was going on. There was about twenty

to thirty people sprawled about the room, all naked, contorted in every

kind of sexual position imaginable. And a couple that weren't imaginable.

 

     Harold could only stare dumbly. The floor was almost lost amongst the

moving, writhing bodies. There were six people on the couch, in some

bizarre group contortion that made them look like something from another

planet. One man sat moaning softly in an easy chair with a hard-on that

Harold would have sworn was twelve inches long, at least. He watched in

total amazement as all twelve inches dissappeared into the mouth of the

co-ed sitting on the floor between the man's feet.

 

     The blonde he had seen earlier was conspicuously absent.

 

     He heard creaking above him, and he looked up. In the rafters, some

twelve feet above, a rope and pully setup had been arranged with a large

wicker basket. Three people were in the basket, which swung back and forth

alarmingly. Harold quickly moved several feet over, out from under the

setup.

 

     His head was spinning. His experience with sex had always been

limited, and now he was confronted with a full-fledged orgy. It was too

much. He didn't want any part of this. All he wanted was out.

     Watching his step carefully, he made his way for the nearest door. He

was almost there when he saw the one thing he *knew* he didn't want to

see.

 

     There was a clear spot at the far end of the room. Only two people

were there, a man flat on his back with a woman sitting astride his hips,

moving up and down in sensuous rhythem. He didn't know who the guy was but

he knew the girl. Cindi. Pain that had been mercifully submerged now rose

to stab arrowlike into his guts. Cindi turned her head at that instant and

their eyes met. Instant recognition and something spiteful and unpleasant

glittered in her eyes for a brief second, and then she turned her attention

back to what she was doing. Her movements became more frantic, and her

moans much louder, exaggerating as much as possible.

 

     Her parting words rang in his mind: "I want a man, dammit!" Well,

fine. All Harold wanted was out. He averted his eyes and ran blindly

towards the closest exit. He stumbled over one couple on the way (startling

them into a premature orgasm) and mumbled apologies as he kept going.

 

     Then he was in a hallway, but not the one he had come from. Doors

lined the hall on both sides. He grabbed one and pulled it open, only to be

rewarded with several outraged yells. Redfaced and near tears from

embarassment, he pulled the door shut and looked around desperately. And

empty room, anything, just so he could get out of sight and get his

thoughts together. If he didn't do it quick, he feared he might lost his

mind. He had to get away, somehow!

 

     There, at the end of the hall. An open door, the room dark within. He

paused at the doorway for a second, but could detect no movement within.

Empty, thank God! He slammed the door shut behind him and let the blackness

envelop him as he sank to the floor with a hoarse sob. He lay in a heap for

who knew how long before he finally calmed down.

 

     His heart gave a sudden leap as he somehow realized, in the total

darkness, that that the room wasn't empty after all. After a long moment,

he finally summoned up a weak voice. "Who's there?"

 

     There was a longer silence, and he almost began to hope he was alone

after all, when a soft voice answered "Are you all right?"

 

     Fuck NO! I ain't all right, you stupid... But Harold controlled

himself before replying, "I will be, eventually. In about fifty years or

so." He hesitated before the next question, "Are you, um, alone?"

 

     "Yeah." she replied, "I just wanted to be by myself. I kinda outgrew

the scene out front a long time ago. All the interesting guys already have

somebody. There was one guy, but I think he went home or something."

 

     Harold got up, a little unsteadily "I'm sorry. Sorry I barged in on

you. I'll leave now."

 

     "Please, don't." she said, "Unless you really need to. I think we

could both use someone to talk to."

 

     Harold sat back down against the wall with a weary sigh. "Sure, why

not?" After a silent moment, he continued, "Would you mind turning on a

light? I'd like to see who I'm talking to."

 

     "Well," she began doubtfully, "you may feel more comfortable without

the light, but if you insist..." There was a click and a flare of light

exploded into his eyes, blinding him momentarily. When he could open his

eyes, he recieved the last shock of a very long day.

 

     Standing by a lamp on the dresser was the blonde from the vollyball

game, still dressed in the frayed shorts but minus the bikini top, which

lay discarded on the bed. She had her eyes screwed shut against the light,

opening them a moment later.

 

     "Oh! It's you!"                                                



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