by John Bromley
“They’re called ‘breasts’,” Angela offered, seeing where his eyes were focused.
He noticed that she appeared to have no penis. Looking down at his own, he was startled to see that it had somehow rapidly grown far longer than he had ever seen it before, and it felt as hard as bone. This was hardly the time, his mind protested, for something to be wrong with him.
Angela climbed into the tub and lay beside him, casually reaching down and stroking his manhood. She seemed totally unconcerned—in fact, she acted pleased—that it was as extremely hard as it was, and this lessened his anxiety greatly. She turned and pressed one of her large breasts into his chest. This, combined with the action of her hand, felt good beyond description.
“Touch me… feel me… do anything you want to with me,” she offered.
“I know I want to do something,” he admitted, “but I have no idea what.”
She moved upward and pressed one of her breasts against his lips.
“Kiss these, for starters.”
When he did, moving from one to the other, she closed her eyes in bliss, and her evident enjoyment made the experience that much better for him. Her hand continued to stroke his manhood and suddenly, to his amazement, a thick white liquid began shooting out of its tip with incredible force. Confusion rattled his senses—he didn’t think this should be happening, but he could not stop it, and it felt too good to want it to stop.
“It’s called ‘sperm’,” Angela explained when she opened her eyes.
“That’s sperm? This is what a woman needs from a man to produce a child?” Jim asked.
“Exactly.”
“So…” Jim was suddenly nervous, “now that you have it… from me… does this mean that you’re going to… give birth?”
“Well, I don’t really have it,” she said, starting to giggle. “It’s all out… there, in the tub… and on the wall. Some of it’s on me, but we have to get it in me.”
“How do we do that?”
“Well, my mother says,” Angela punctuated her remarks with kisses, “this is where the fun begins.”
“I thought I was already having as much fun as was humanly possible,” Jim marveled. “You mean it gets better?”
“I guess. And, my mother tells me, it’s especially fun if you’re doing it with a person you… love.”
His penis had begun to soften, but at her last word it became as hard as it was before he decorated the bathroom with sperm. The word affected Angela as well—she locked her lips with his for another long kiss.
“Now, we’ll take this…” she gently directed his manhood while moving her body slightly “… and place it… right about… oh, yeah.”
He felt himself being somehow swallowed into her lower body. The sensation was almost beyond belief.
It felt like he encountered a barrier within her. She pushed downward, as though trying to break it. He kissed her again, because he wanted to, and he thought it might lessen any pain she might be feeling. He could tell when she succeeded, for he went deeper into her. The kiss had to end, so they could cry out in unison.
‘OH!”
“MY!”
“GOD!!”
Instinctively, he withdrew and pushed into her again. An already perfect feeling only got better. Sublime ecstasy returned to her face, and her body began to tremble.
“It’s called… an orgasm,” she panted. “My mother says… sometimes it happens… during sex.”
He could tell when her climax began to subside but almost immediately, it seemed to him, she launched into another one.
Angela tried to speak around her pleasure. “She also said… some lucky… women… can have… more than one. I guess… oh, God!... I’m lucky.”
Jim’s senses also went on overload as he felt himself pumping out more sperm. This time, he thought with a smile, it was going where it was “supposed” to go.
When they had caught their breath, they looked at each other, smiled, and kissed warmly.
“Now are you going to have a child?” Jim asked.
“You mean, your child?”
“OK… are you going to have my child?”
“Not necessarily,” she responded. She quickly elaborated, “If I become pregnant as a result of what we just did, yes, it will be your child. A woman cannot become pregnant without sperm, but the presence of sperm does not guarantee pregnancy. Sometimes, even when the sex is as wonderful…”
“Fantastic,” he added enthusiastically.
“Unbelievable, as that was,” she continued, “the sperm all… miss.”
“And, if that happens?”
She pressed her body closer to his and rested her head on his shoulder.
“In that case, I guess we’ll just have to… try again.”
He held her and stroked her hair.
“Oh, God, no—a fate worse than death,” he said with mock sarcasm.
They climbed out of the tepid water in the tub and began drying each other off. Despite two ejaculations within an hour, the softness of Angela’s sensational body was getting Jim excited again. His next thought surprised him, but only for a moment.
She’s probably right; since this feels so… right, I guess I do love her.
She noticed his arousal and felt pleasure course through her body. Smiling, she took his hand and led him toward the bedroom.
“My mother says… there are many other methods and positions for having sex.”
Jim returned her smile. “Remind me to listen very carefully to everything your mother says.”
CHAPTER 43
Billings did not regain consciousness until after Sam, Buck and Peter had left. When he did, he allowed ten minutes to pass before he got up and moved toward the door of the Department of Education’s computer room. He would have liked to wait a little longer for the pain from his broken right arm to subside, but did not want to give his adversaries too much of a head start.
He pushed the door open with his good left shoulder. Entering the lobby, he was greeted by the four dead bodies he had created when he arrived. Ignoring them, he walked outside to his car. He had been cradling his right arm in his left hand, but now had to carefully allow the arm to dangle so he could open the car door. It took over a minute to get himself seated in the vehicle.
The first thing I’ve got to do, he thought around his waves of pain, is to get myself a sling.
The drive back to the White House was about six blocks, but in that distance Billings caused at least that many accidents. With only his left hand functioning, he simply slammed the car into gear and blasted out of the Education parking lot, paying no heed to stop signs, pedestrians, speed limits, traffic lights, or even traffic itself. He had been humiliated, and was now extremely angry.
Let them eat shit, he thought in his fury. I’m important—I got things I gotta do. These bastard drivers want to complain about me, I'll turn them all into “Section Fifteens” here and now. I might just do that anyway.
He made mental notes of the license plates of a few of the slower drivers, vowing to send them off to the Ghetto under the “Section Fifteen” ruse, and collecting his “finder’s fee” for them, as he had done so often in the past. To guys named Hawke and Freeley, and hundreds of others long forgotten, by him at least. As he had even done to his own underling, G. Waddington Wellington.
He wondered why that name had suddenly popped into his head, out of the blue.
“Because it's such a stupid name,” he answered himself.
The voice on the news radio station in his car was talking, as they had been nearly all day, about the death of Colonel Parker and its possible ramifications for the nation as a whole.
“Why the hell do you people just go on and on about this asshole?” Billings shouted at the radio. “He’s dead! Get over it! He stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong!”
He continued speaking his thoughts aloud. “He dared to cross me, and paid for it. That’s what happens to people who get in my way. Anyone who gets in my
way.
“Gonna get me a sling, then I’m gonna get me a bigger and better gun. Then, Swenson, I swear to God, it’s your turn. Half-brother or not, you’re a dead man.”
His yelling at the radio didn’t stop the analysis of “Colonel Jim’s” death, of course. At that moment, the specific topic being discussed was the TV time he had requested for the follow-up debate with the President tomorrow night.
“Well, since the man’s unfortunately dead,” one talking head opined, “I think it safe to assume that he won’t be participating in any debate with anyone, least of all the President.”
“Yes, that’s true,” a second debater admitted, “but... if he had followers—”
The man did have ‘followers’, Billings said to himself, and noted that, however many there are, they’re all dead, too. Or soon will be.
“—do you think one of them could state the Colonel's case—”
“He had no ‘case’,” Billings loudly corrected the radio personality. “He only had forbidden information—that’s why he’s dead! For Chrissakes, get that through your fat heads!”
Normally, when Billings was feeling irritated by the news or commentary on the radio, he would have simply switched stations until he found one that agreed with his outlook on government, politics and life in general. Today, however, he remained tuned to this station which was annoying him, in an unconscious effort to keep his anger at its peak.
The discussion of the potential merits and pitfalls of Colonel Parker’s TV broadcast was spirited and entertaining (to most people), but when it was the moderator’s turn he had to bring it to a temporary halt.
“We’ll return to our analysis of Colonel Parker’s planned TV debate following a word from our sponsor, but first, this just in...
“The White House today announced the death of Edwin Billings, the longtime Chief of the Secret Service and an aide to the last two Presidents. According to the press secretary’s official statement, the death apparently took place nine or ten days ago but, and I quote, ‘due to the avalanche of events surrounding the so-called Battle by the Wall and the need to devote all our attention and resources to resolving that situation as speedily as possible, notifying the public of this death had to be delayed until now.’
“Also, as an FYI—it says that the cause of death has still not been determined, but that suicide has not yet been ruled out. Hmm... remarkable.”
Billings expected a discussion of his “untimely passing” to begin at this point, but instead the announcer’s voice ended and the promised “word from their sponsor” began.
Ted was dumbfounded. He pulled into the White House parking lot and sat staring out the windshield, dazed.
“‘Remarkable’?” he said out loud, his mind trying to absorb this confused mass of misinformation and choosing to begin there. “That's all he can say? I’m supposedly dead, and that’s the best he can come up with? Not ‘tragic’? Not ‘disastrous’? Not even ‘unfortunate’? Just ‘remarkable’?”
He got out of his car, muttering to himself. “First of all, that radio clown is toast. Then I’m gonna find out who came up with this piece of shit, and—”
He pulled up short as he realized something. When he did, despite his anger, he actually chuckled a little.
“‘Suicide...’ only one person I know would add that ‘touch’ to this bullshit story. I don’t know how you did it, Swenson, but I promise you, if you live for more than three seconds next time we meet, that'll be ‘remarkable’.”
He proceeded up the walkway toward the West Wing. A groundskeeper working among the roses spotted him.
“Mr. Billings? Is that you? I just heard you were dead.”
Ted stopped. “And?” he challenged the man.
“And... I guess I heard wrong,” he replied, quickly returning to his weeding.
Billings walked on, making a mental note that the worker had not said “I’m glad I was wrong,” or “I’m happy that you’re not dead.” He simply admitted that the information was incorrect and, for Billings, that was not good enough.
Too bad he didn't have a gun. However, that situation would soon be rectified.
He entered the White House and heard the secretary near the door announce with evident surprise that he was not dead. He did not bother challenging the man, whose name was Spiro Walsh, but merely ordered him to “send the doctor to my office, now.”
Once in his office, he opened his safe with some difficulty and removed a small metallic cylinder, which he carefully placed in his briefcase. Going to his desk, he found another Uzi machine gun in one of the drawers. As he always told his underlings, ‘you can never have too much firepower’. It was not easy to open and check the ammunition magazine with one hand, but he managed to satisfy himself that it was fully loaded. He had it back together and ready when the President’s personal physician arrived.
“My arm’s broken. I need a sling,” he curtly informed the doctor.
Sensing that his patient was even more tense than usual, the doctor quickly reached into his medical satchel and produced a sling.
“Would you take off your jacket and shirt, sir?” the medic asked.
“What for?” Billings demanded.
“I want to check the condition of the break. Then I need to set your arm and prepare a cast—”
“I don’t have time for all that shit. Just put the damn thing in the sling.”
The doctor knew better than to argue, so he hurried to comply.
“And, give me some pills for the pain,” Billings added.
When Ted’s arm was enclosed in the sling, the doctor placed some extra-strength pain killers on the desk.
“And some water to take the pills with,” Billings said with forced calm, as though that should have been obvious.
While the doctor went to the sink to fill a glass, Ted pushed a button on his desk to summon his assistants.
Ted had just finished swallowing the pills when the first of his minions entered the room.
“Mr. Billings!” he said, “you’re not dead!”
Ted decided that the man’s voice reflected both surprise and disappointment. He picked up his Uzi with his left hand, promising himself that the next man who says that…
At that moment, the second assistant entered.
“Mr. Billings!” he also exclaimed.
Ted couldn’t tell exactly what emotion this man had at seeing Billings alive, aside from surprise, but it was clearly not joy. Simultaneously, the first man urgently tried to signal his associate not to continue that line of thought, but it was to no avail.
“You're not dead!”
That does it.
Pointing his Uzi in the general direction of his second assistant, he let loose a salvo of fifteen bullets, twelve of which lodged in various parts of the man’s body, including his head. He fell to the floor, unseeing eyes staring at the ceiling. Two others went through him and struck the wall behind him. Billings was not a very good shot, even with his dominant right hand. Consequently, having to use his left hand, it was no surprise that one round accidentally caught the first assistant in his right side. He slumped to the floor and began to bleed profusely from what turned out to be a ruptured kidney. The President’s physician, who was still in the room, made no move to tend to either shooting victim.
“Where is the President?” Ted asked his surviving assistant.
“I think... he went... up North,” the man managed to gasp.
“What?” Billings shouted. “He went up… There... without me? Who let him do that?”
Getting no answer, he brought the gun around and pointed it at the man.
“Who let the President go up there alone?” he repeated.
“It... wasn’t me,” his assistant panted. “Don’t... know... who it was.”
“Did you try to stop him?” Ted asked.
“Didn’t know... anything... about it... ‘til he was... gone,” the man said. He was on the verge of passing out.
“Did...
you... try... to... stop... him?” Ted asked slowly, making it clear that there was only one acceptable answer, and it was the wrong answer.
“No,” the man admitted with his final breath.
Ted nodded, acknowledging the man’s failures, before firing again and peppering the man’s body with another dozen or so rounds.
Turning away, he commanded the doctor, “Take care of them.”
The physician seemed unsure what he could do for either man at this point, so he hesitated for a moment. Ted noticed his indecision and said, “On second thought...”
He turned back and fired one more time, introducing about two dozen slugs into the doctor’s body. Ted rationalized that as “target practice.”
Leaving his Uzi on his desk, he went down the hall to the Oval Office. He knew Thompson would not be there but, unexpectedly, he found the latest batch of “Ask the President” letters arranged neatly into three piles on the President’s desk.
William usually finishes these up before he does anything else, he thought to himself. He must have left in quite a hurry. Left... or been taken away.
He gathered up all three piles of letters and put them into his briefcase. Normally, only the leftmost pile would have been “his” to do with as he saw fit. Today, however, was a special case. What with the President’s “disappearance” and his own “difficulties,” not to mention his “embarrassment” at the hands of that bastard Swenson, he would almost certainly need some extra cash to carry out his responsibilities.
For Ted, “extra cash” meant only one thing—Section Fifteen. He had written the law himself and forced the late President Henry Thompson to sign it as a personal favor to him. It served a “noble purpose,” at least in his mind, but right now, money was the issue. As far as he was concerned, each of the nearly one hundred letters he had just plucked from Thompson’s desk represented a man who had just “volunteered” to become a member of “Section Fifteen.”
