by Baron Sord
“Misty Dicks?” he chuckled. “D-i-c-k-s?”
“Noooo,” she giggled dumbly. “You spell Dixxx with triple X’s.” She lowered her voice to a purr, “X, X, X.” She finished by pursing her lips.
Ron chortled, “That what it says on your drivers license? Lemme see.”
“You show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” Kristy teased.
“I like the sound of that,” Ron smiled wide. “Where you thinking? Back of your car?”
“The back of yours. I’ve never had sex in a police car.”
“Really,” Ron snorted rhetorically.
“Well? Are we gonna party or what?”
“Uhhh…” Ron chuckled nervously. I’ve never done anything remotely fucking like this. There was that one blowjob so that cunt could get out of her ticket, but she didn’t look like this! No fucking way! That cunt was heinous compared to this one! This cunt is a fucking supermodel! I can’t believe this is fucking happening! There has to be a catch. “Uhhh, you don’t have AIDS, do you?”
“No,” Kristy snorted. “I don’t have anything.” It was the truth. After Brock’d cheated on Kristy with Paige, it’d been right to the clinic to get tested. Everything came back negative. “Just got tested.”
“Wait, are you…” a fucking hooker? What else would she be?
“I don’t normally do this,” Kristy giggled, looking at her broken phone for a moment. She set it gently in the center console. Then she gave Ron the shy eyes and said, “But there’s just something about you, Ron. Something about a man in uniform. I’ve never been with a police officer before…”
This is getting freakier by the second, Ron thought. He lifted his flashlight and pointed it in the car, inspecting the interior. He frowned, “Hey, what’s with the rubber sheets over your seat?” She some kind of serial killer?
Kristy shrugged, “Old car, old seats. They’re falling apart. I kept getting crap all over my clothes. What do you think, Ron? You gonna show this girl the time of her life? Or…”
Ron chuckled. Adjusted his duty belt. I’m fucking hard as stone for this cunt. I’d be stupid to turn her down. “Okay, yeah.”
“Can I… step out of my vehicle, Officer Ron?” Kristy flirted. “Please, sir, may I?” Men liked to think they were in charge.
“Go ahead,” he grinned and backed up.
Kristy opened the door and stepped out. Bumped it shut with her butt. Leaned languidly against her Audi, cocking her hips forward.
Look at that fucking body! he thought. I can see everything with that costume! That white fucking V-stripe on it points right at her fucking cunt!
Kristy smirked, “Well? Where’s your car?”
“This way,” Ron pointed with his flashlight. I can’t believe I’m fucking doing this! Her body is ten times better than I expected! Those tits are fucking huge! And that slit?! I can fucking see it right in her thigh gap!
Kristy sauntered toward his side and draped her arms around his elbow.
Fuuuuuck, she smells like fucking sex. I’m gonna come in my uniform any fucking second!
Kristy giggled.
Ron grinned. Chuckled. Fucking-A! This is fucking unbelievable!
“I am so wet right now,” Kristy purred in Ron’s ear, using her patented lap dance voice.
Fuuuuuuuck, Ron thought, his eyes fluttering back into his head.
“Show me the way, Ron…” Kristy whispered, blowing a kiss in his ear. “…and I’ll show you your wildest and wettest dreams.”
“Yeah,” he grunted hoarsely. “This way.”
Kristy snaked her arms around his waist as they walked down the empty neighborhood street.
Ron led her onto the sidewalk.
“Where’s your car?” Kristy asked.
“Around the corner.”
“Not too far, I hope.”
“Nope.”
They turned the corner at the end of the block. Kristy saw her Audi was no longer in view. When they passed a lamppost, she gasped, “I don’t think I can wait for your car.” She grabbed Ron by his police belt and spun him around so her back was to the lamppost and pulled him close.
They were nose to nose.
Holy fuck! Ron thought. She’s even more gorgeous under the light!
“Hold my hips, Ron. I love it when a man holds my hips.” Kristy grabbed his wrists and placed his hands firmly on her hips. “When I’m fucking, I love it when a man squeezes really hard. Can you squeeze hard, Ron?”
“Yeah,” he grunted. I am so fucking hard right now!
“Hard as you can,” Kristy whispered.
“Okay, yeah,” Ron muttered.
“Now fucking kiss me, Ron. Just fucking kiss me,” Kristy hissed with desperate sexual need and grabbed Ron’s right wrist with her left hand. “Hard, Ron. Hard…”
“Yeah,” Ron grunted. He closed his eyes and leaned in to—
In a single blinding fast coordinated motion, Kristy’s right hand unsnapped the leather pouch behind Ron’s belt, the one holding his handcuffs. Whipped them out and slapped one bracelet on his left wrist, half latching it in the process. At the same time, Kristy was knocking his left wrist off her hips with her left hand, which circled at the elbow and continued around to slap him across the jaw, stunning him. This maneuver would’ve been impossible without her enhanced reflexes, but she’d done it.
Ron dropped to the ground and sat down.
Kristy bent over and tightened the loose bracelet on his right wrist. Then stepped behind the lamppost, pulling Ron up against it by the handcuff until the post was in the crook of his neck between his upraised arm and ear. The post was less than a foot wide. She reached around it to grab Ron’s armpit and pull his free arm up toward her until his wrist was close enough to grab. Then Kristy slapped the loose bracelet over his right wrist and tightened it.
“Sorry about that, Ron,” Kristy sighed. “Are you okay?”
“What the fuck?!” he hissed, hugging the lamppost. “You fucking cuffed me!”
“I know. I couldn’t think of anything else.”
He thought, This is fucking embarrassing! If any of the fellas see me, I’ll never fucking live this down! How’m I gonna get out of this without calling someone?
Kristy saw that she could easily climb up the pole, which was about 20 feet tall, hook her legs around the horizontal arm, shimmy out to the end, hang by her legs, lift her arms around the lamp housing, shimmy back down to the pole while grabbing the sidearm with her hands, and slide down the pole to the bottom. It’d be easy without handcuffs on. She could probably do it using the cuff chain on the climb up to pull against the post while squeezing it with her legs, assuming the handcuff chain wasn’t too slippery on the metal post. And she could probably climb down once her cuffed hands were not around the post, but you’d need a really strong grip with your wrists bound together by cuffs because you wouldn’t be able to get your palms around the back of the foot-wide pole because the cuff chain wouldn’t let you. You’d have to squeeze the post with your palms really, really hard.
Eh.
It was Ron’s problem. He’d gotten himself into this mess.
Irritated, he said, “You never wanted to fuck me, did you?”
Kristy squeezed her knees together and squatted down on her haunches. “Maybe if you’d asked nicely like a gentleman…”
“You said you wanted to show me a good time!”
“Didn’t I?” She arched an amused eyebrow.
“This is a good time?!” he whined.
“It was for me,” she giggled.
“Uncuff me! I’m an officer of the law!”
“Sorry, Ron. I haveta go.” She stood and found his radio on his belt. Pulled it out. It was attached by a cord to a mic piece that went into his uniform shirt and up to his shoulder. Kristy unplugged the cord from the radio and walked it 10 feet away from Ron. Set the radio on the sidewalk. “I’ll leave this here, okay?”
“You can’t do this!” Ron hissed.
“I just did,”
she winked and walked away.
“This is felony assault of a police officer! You’ll go to prison for this!”
“Bye, Ron!”
“Come back here! Uncuff me! Stop! Misty! Don’t go! Please! Miiiiisteeeee!”
Smiling to herself, Kristy walked around the corner to her Audi and drove home.
Behind the wheel, she grinned and thanked the universe for making men so effing obsessed with sex. Escape would’ve been waaaay harder with a straight female policewoman.
And thank you, Ron the Horn Dog Vaughn.
—: Chapter 15 :—
Two days later, we drove out Saturday morning to the desert in my rented Ford Fusion. Took the 8 east out past Live Oak Springs, then south into the rocky desert near the Mexican border.
At Arnold’s instruction, I exited onto a bumpy dirt road in the middle of nowhere. A dusty rooster tail plumed up behind the car.
The dash thermometer said it was 109 F (43 C) outside.
Inside we were comfortable because I did my heat trick, pulling excess heat from the car and periodically opening my window a crack to empty the heat outside using my fingers. The air was too hot for the convection effect to make much difference, and we were only doing 20mph (32kph) on the bumpy dirt road (which meant less convection than freeway speeds), so I had to actively emit heat. I pushed it out as fast as I could without emitting flames. The end result was my fingers emitted a chaotic swirl of heat waves like you would see coming out the back end of a fighter jet as the engines revved up on the runway.
I wasn’t worried about anyone noticing out here in this wasteland. Everywhere you looked was heat waves.
“Welcome to meth country,” Arnold said while taking a swig from a water bottle. “There’s probably a meth lab behind every hill you see.”
“Yeah,” I chuckled. “Is one an RV with Walter White and Jesse Pinkman inside cooking up a fresh batch?”
“You said it. And speaking of meth addicts, when was the last time you shaved? You look like a bum with all that scruff.”
My beard wasn’t as long as I would’ve expected after all these weeks (at most 1/4-inch), but it was as resilient as the rest of me and annoyingly scratchy. The resilience probably explained the slow growth. But talk about having steel wool for a beard. I groaned, “I can’t shave. Every time I try, I ruin another razor. I’ve tried disposables, my electric, garden shears. Nothing works. I probably need a disc sander.”
Arnold chuckled, “That I’d like to see.”
“I can’t trim my nails either.” I held them up. “They’re getting annoyingly long.” Like my hair, they hadn’t grown that much. Only a few millimeters, but they were literal claws and I hated long nails.
“Try cutting them with metal scissors.”
“You mean tin snips?”
“Yeah, those.”
“I did. Ruined the blades.” I looked around outside the car. “Why are we here again, besides the obvious abundance of free heat?”
“You’ll see.”
When Arnold had told me we were going out to the desert, I had filled the gas tank and bought a case of water bottles in case of an emergency. You never knew what might happen out here. I needed water as much as the next guy. No, more than the next guy. I went through water as fast as I went through food, which was at least 10x normal.
I said, “Maybe I should’ve bought more water. And extra gas. I’d hate to get stranded out here.”
“We won’t. We’re not going that far.”
After nearly an hour of slow driving on the dirt road, I said, “How are we doing on gas?”
“Fine. If we run out, you can get out and push,” he winked. “Anyway, we’re here.”
An assembly of metal structures came into view as we crested a hill.
He said, “Remember I said we needed a hideout? We need a place like this.”
“It’s in the middle of nowhere, Arn.”
“Yeah, but it’s got a runway.” He was right. The metal buildings were old dusty airplane hangars connected to a long asphalt runway. “It’s even got a helipad,” he added. “Nobody would ever look for us out here.”
“But it’s too far from work.”
“Work, shmerk.”
“In case you forgot, I still have to work for living. YouDoIt is too far from here to drive daily.”
“So fly. Get a plane and fly into Miramar every morning and drive to work from there. Serra Mesa is like two minutes away.”
“Miramar is run by the Marine Corp. Civilians aren’t allowed to land there.” I didn’t bother mentioning the Montgomery-Gibbs Executive Airport was less than two miles from YouDoIt because I would never be able to afford my own plane. The way things were going, I couldn’t afford plane tickets to Vegas, which were a hundred bucks a pop last time I checked. These days, that was wildly outside my price range.
“Details, details,” Arnold chuckled. “Call in a few favors and have the Marines fly you into Miramar.”
“Call who?”
“Do you have to kill all my dreams, Dr. Scrooge?”
“It’s Mr. Scrooge.”
Arnold smirked, “I meant Dr. Gloom.”
“It’s Dr. Doom.”
“Stop.”
“But it—”
“Stop! I meant Dr. Gloom, you word murderer! That should be your name. Not Wildfire. You’re the Word Murderer!”
“Actually,” I grinned, “I like Dr. Gloom much better. Does he have a suit of badass body armor like Dr. Doom?”
“Totally,” Arnold laughed and we opened our doors and got out. A hot wall of heat hammered us both. Heat waves shimmered off the runway, creating numerous flickering mirages in the distance.
Did I mention this place was hot?
It was all bleached dirt and dusty rocks as far as the eye could see.
As we approached the hangers, I said, “This place looks like a junkyard.”
“It’s not. It’s a gold mine.”
“It’s—”
“Not literal gold, Mr. Specific.”
I laughed.
Near the hangars, scrap metal was piled everywhere, some of it easily recognizable as car parts: dented fenders, chrome bumpers, rusty rims, frames, axles, entire drive trains, engine blocks, etc.
Aside from car parts, there was a wide variety of castoff pieces of old industrial equipment. All of it once had a specific function, but now it was unidentifiable and rusting away under the desert sun.
Inside one of the hangars, some guy was leaning over a work table cutting a hunk of metal with an oxyacetylene torch. A blue flame jetted out of the tip. The guy wore a welding mask, leather apron, and gloves.
“Don’t look at the flame,” I said to Arnold.
“Yeah, I know, Dr. Eye Doctor.”
I chuckled.
The hangar was filled with mechanical contraptions that looked like Road Warrior and BattleBots had a baby and called it Burning Man. The contraptions ranged in size from an engine block to a bus, and everything in between. All were bare metal that came in every possible shade of rust.
The guy finished his cut and a piece of steel clanged against the concrete floor. He saw us and turned off his torch with a pop, then hung it up. He flipped up his welding mask, revealing a curly blond beard and bright blue eyes. He was sweaty and smudged with dark streaks of grease.
“Arnold!” he beamed. “Good to see you, buddy!”
“Hey, man! Check you out, all cutting metal and shit.”
“And shit,” the guy grinned as he pulled his welding gloves off.
“Hey, this is my friend Doug I was telling you about. Doug, this is Heph.”
“Hef? Like Hugh Hefner?” I asked as we shook hands.
“No. Heph with a P-H. Like Hephaestus. The god of fire. Kind of like you, or so Arnold tells me?”
I cringed. I had no idea how much Arnold had told this guy about my powers. I gave Arnold a pointed look. “What did you tell him, Dr. Loose Lips?”
“Relax,” Arnold said, clapping
my shoulder, “Heph has a high level security clearance.”
“Had,” Heph emphasized.
Arnold rolled his eyes, “Heph used to build bombs for the military.”
I glared at Arnold, “Why did he stop? Did he lose his security clearance?”
Heph grinned, “You could say that. I decided to quit making weapons so I could make art. In the eyes of the military, that makes me a dirty peace-loving hippy, same as my parents. What the military doesn’t know is, I make art that’s deadly.”
“And that’s legal?” I asked skeptically.
“Depends on how you define the term,” Heph chuckled.
“See?” Arnold laughed. “Heph won’t say anything.”
“Say what?” Heph said innocently. “I didn’t hear nothing. Who are you guys again?” He pretended to be confused then laughed casually.
I trusted Arnold, so I decided to trust Heph. He couldn’t be any worse than Gray Eyes or Bowling Ball or any of those FwCK thugs, and they had first-hand experience with my super powers in the worst way possible.
Heph smiled at both of us and chuckled, “So, we gonna blow stuff up or what?”
—: Chapter 16 :—
Ka-BOOM!
“Yeah!” Arnold cheered as a twenty foot fireball burst from an oil drum in the middle of the runway. Black smoke belched out as the fire burned.
“See what you can do with that,” Heph said to me.
We were about a hundred feet away from the flaming drum. Heph had ignited it with a spark plug mounted in the drum. The spark plug was attached to long wires that led to a switch box in Heph’s hand.
I walked over to the blaze, wearing only my boxer-briefs and one of Heph’s leather aprons around my waist.
“Nice ass!” Arnold laughed. “Love your costume!”
I flipped him off without looking back.
Despite the blistering heat of the baking asphalt on the soles of my bare feet, I didn’t mind one bit because it didn’t burn me, and I pulled the heat up into my legs and added it to my tank. I didn’t mind the blistering sun on my skin either. It was likely I would never sunburn as long as I had my powers, but I did tan and could see it visibly happening. I was a shade darker since I had arrived.
