"I can dance here in public, if I want to," the damsel in white exclaimed by snapping her delicate fingers. She unfurled the lavender matting, stepped upon it and began her motions. Men stopped and drooled. Women fretted and frothed. Both sexes knew that no one could move like that, not in the natural way of muscles. The damsel appeared intensely concentrated on her motions, but she perceived minutely the entirety of those around her. She even knew intuitively which of the onlookers she would take with her when it came time to return. Her body began talking to one of the men she saw. "These motions are for you," her body told him. He understood and smiled back a suave declaration of physical lust, acknowledging the body she used. When the dance was over she beaconed him to join her on the tiny carpet she stood on. The rug lifted and soared into the air, bringing them to her kingdom where she reigned as princess, one whose hobby was the collection of men. In a night that had no need for words she enjoyed the new addition to her collection. When it was over he uttered chains of, "I love you, I love you." But she had decided the togetherness was an incident denouemented and closed, had him led to the harem room to be with the rest of the men gathering dust in her collection. In their idle time together the men found they had one thing in common. None of them could say "I love you" with body language.

Story #247

"Wake up! Get out of bed," the voice hammered incessantly at her pseudo-slumber. Didn't the voice know she never closed her eyes? This was her way to the place where dreams waited to wrap themselves around a mind and hurl it through ever kaleidoscoping sceneries. But she walked in flesh, not an imagery of herself. She could go wherever she wished in the realm of everyone's imagination while she lay in bed, eyes wide open, the blanket concealing her. The blanket had been blessed and bequeathed by a great-grandmother who, it was rumored, knew several mystical concepts that had never been written down. The past night had been fulfilling to her. She found a dreamer weaving through clay scenery and decided to pursue him. He ran and ran, ever slower, driven by that night spirit he secretly wanted to confront and embrace for the feral feel of her femininity. But an inexplicable blind terror drove him onward. To her it was a whimsical game of cat and mouse. She abandoned him as he sank screaming into the clay. A blink of an eye later she focused into a new dream where she smiled at a boy trancing on a mountaintop, luring him into the impossible pursuit of her down an 80 degree incline, pondering whether she should allow his outstretched fingers to fasten onto her. All this happened in a state of waking and willful consciousness. "No, I'm not getting up now, even if it is two in the afternoon." She pulled the cover back over her head, pretending to have slept. Somewhere in the world, eyes were closing in repose, inviting her to seek out the soul and toy with it.

Story #246

Note from Indeterminacy: A big thank you to Grace-Monday of This City Kills for kind permission to use her photo.

People were amazed by the head growing on the apple tree. It always tried to engage the orchard workers in conversation. "Nice apple crop we're having this year," it'd say, to the bewilderment of the listener. "Try the red delicious from the top branch. They're the juiciest." The head offered to tell the story of Adam and Eve, from the point of view of the apple. In its spare time it rattled off long term fruit futures, and was quite willing to share the secret of how to make an apple pie that could get the devil to give back souls. There were, however, instances of hostility. Anyone walking by the tree eating grapes or a banana was liable to be doused with hot dripping apple sauce.

Story #245

Dora had a doll house that was realistic in all its suburban ranch house detail, down to the bric-a-brac on the living room mantel and the television remote control. She placed a couple of dolls inside, leaving them to germinate with each other. They started dancing. You could look in through the open wall and watch the dolls whirl and glide within their confines. Dora started inviting her friends over to peek into the dolls' mock-up world and watch the interaction. More and more people came to watch. Word got around. Both Time Magazine and the National Enquirer did a feature on "The Dancing Dolls." Camera crews filmed them and doll psychologists toured talk shows speculating on the sublimated passions of the dance as ersatz. Whatever it was, the dolls swirled through the living room, lost in shared motion. There was nothing else the boy doll and girl doll could do. The door to the bedroom was stuck, and the remote control did not activate the television.

Story #244

Note from Indeterminacy: The stories in the comments section will be reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

Check out some more great free-for-all story writing at blogin_idiot.blogspot.com

Sandra sat in the place with the chairs, staring intently at them. Each fixture represented a person with whom she had shared intimacy of emotion and sometimes, intimacy of the body. But they had parted company from her, as they found they were walking hand in hand on parallel paths that suddenly wound away into opposing distances. But Sandra's imagination was lively. She thought of faces she had known, summoned auras out of the aftertaste that lingered in her. When all the seats were filled the party began, and Sandra was the guest of honor. They sang songs to her, served her drinks, showered her with conversations which had begun way back when, but were never finished. When the last glass was empty, and the last word spoken, and the last kiss placed, her friends found it was time to return, some to the deep dream of sleep, some to a daytime reverie or the sudden remembrance of their dear friend Sandra who in reality had never existed.

Story #243

Albert saw the glaring lights of a 747 jumbo jet careening towards him, brakes squealing uselessly. It looked like it would roll right over him. "How do they keep finding me?" he puzzled while his cold sweat slapped him with a horrible chill. He closed his eyes and ran blindly, anywhere, just away from that machine. He stumbled into a ditch and opened his eyes. The lights came now out of a new direction, bearing right down on him. He rose and bolted away with all the energy his sudden shot of adrenaline gave him, then finally collapsed, turning his head hesitantly to see that the lights were still on top of him. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed. "Hello, is this the secretary.....good.....Look, could you tell the chief, I won't be taking that sick day after all.....That's right. I'm feeling better. I'll be at the control tower in twenty minutes.

Story #242

Note from Indeterminacy: this story was originally posted at Michael's Blogin Idiot Blog. Check out the other story contributions!

She lay on the bed, so close and yet as unreachable as one of those images out of a life flashing before one's eyes, perhaps on occasion of attack and devourance by vicious dogs. "I would love to accommodate you," she said, flashing a smile that showcased her wide lips, "if only my dog would let you past." Harvey tried everything. He threw sticks across the room and through the window, hoping the creature would jump out in pursuit. He dropped a cat at the dog's feet; he waved a choice t-bone steak under his noise. But nothing fazed the iron canine gaze drilling into him. Harvey retreated to the safe but non-erotic emptiness of the living room, to consider what to do. His thoughts stepped onto the idea that he and the dog had quite a lot in common. The love of a lady had already formed a bond between them, albeit a bond of rivalry. He would just have to do something about that. The desires swirling in his head lead to inventiveness. He left the house, returning a few hours later with everything he needed. Under the dog's suspicious stare he set it all up. And it worked. While the dog sat captivated by the Lassie DVD playing on the laptop, Harvey was able to stroll past and visit the girl on her bed. He had a wonderful time, as her accommodations were indeed most hospitable. Regrettably, Harvey neglected to set the DVD on continuous cycle. When Lassie ended, he had a very nasty surprise.

Story #241

The Siamese twins joined at the waist made the best of their situation and became a musical duo, Chad on keyboard and Chip on guitar. But all was not as harmonic as one might expect. Chip got so into his solos that he thrashed around and banged Chad's keyboard with the neck of his guitar. This broke Chad's concentration, causing him to slide his fingers onto the wrong notes. Sometimes the keyboard slipped out of his hands with a loud crack against the hard stage surface. The performance inevitably fell apart under the specter of loud argument. Some nights it even came to blows. Chad had a mean left. And Chip's right was not to be trifled with. The two were brought together at a summit meeting where they agreed to work at the problems constructively. First they tried double saxophones, but as Chip and Chad swayed to their rhythms the instruments got all dented and began producing atonal honks. They tried sharing the same harp for a while, which theoretically might have worked, as Chad was left handed and Chip the opposite. But they kept wanting to strum the same strings simultaneously, causing them to snap. Any one of the two might have lost an eye. In the end they traded all the damaged instruments for a used accordion. This went well. Chad worked the left end of the accordion and sang bass, Chip worked the right end and sang tenor. They didn't get many gigs though. Because Chip and Chad were one physical entity, people were not willing to pay the price for two musicians.

Story #240

"You're still not getting it!" the director hurled at his rehearsing players.

"What did we do wrong this time?" the boy pondered.
"Are we to play it in mime?" the girl wondered.

The director sighed. "I'll repeat it again if you're lost: This is Theater of the Absurd. You must avoid meaning at every cost."

"You gave us Shakespeare to read," said she, "and told us to use the soliloquy."

"We have no budget for modern scripts, and these may be used without royalty. I ask only that you state the reverse of what you read, so that we might add absurdity. Begin again, please, at the scene where Hamlet confronts Juliet."

Hamlet: Anarchy or decadence? Answer thou this question.
Juliet: O Romeo, Romeo, there art thou!
Hamlet: 'Tis better to have pleasure by slings and cuffs, than watch the Wheel of Fortune.
Juliet: Deny thy father came thus to me? Oh what was his name? I dared not refuse him. But it was not love, I swear it.
Hamlet: I'll take his wooden arms and trouble him to spring in the sea to his unopposed end.
Juliet: I have some capsules I long to take. 'Tis said one forgets one's own name.
Hamlet: To sleep, to sleep with thee evermore, by sleep mean I that pleasure of a thousand throbbings of the flesh. Ah, thy natural hair!
Juliet: Take thou thyself, through masturbation. Wilt thou masturbate?
Hamlet: 'Tis a consummation devoutly to avoid.
Juliet: With thy hand afoot, no arm nor face of mine thou need. Or belong to a man, a name of thy choosing.
Hamlet: To sleep with thee, perchance was but a dream: may that thou would rub me.
Juliet: To thee 'tis all the same. Take my friend Rose. She smells as sweet as I.

"No! No! No!" the director lamented loudly, throwing his arms in the air.

"What's wrong now?" the boy and girl asked as one.

"It's good," the director told them, catching his falling arms, "but it's making too much sense. Let's go instead with a new concept. Girl, you be Othello, and boy, you play Little Richard. Stagehand! Bring out the piano and the horse."

"This is absurd!! Of concepts completely unheard!!" the boy and girl responded in verse.

"Act!" barked the director, "Art must not be deterred!"

Story #239

I'm posting my version a little early. Anyone else wishing to contribute a story to the picture, please feel free to do so. Thanks everyone who wrote something. Again, it feels like it's my birthday, with all the great stories you shared with me.

For another round robin story writing, check out Michael's blog: http://blogin_idiot.blogspot.com

Kitty had had quite a night as a cat. She arched her back in a final feline impulse, purring softly to herself. It had been wonderful fun playing with the dogs. She'd saunter up behind them in four-legged form and meow in that sultry cinnamon way of hers that brought out the tiger in them. They pursued her as she sprang a skewed path all the way to a magic meadow she knew of, where no one could disturb them. Only Kitty and her chosen pursuers knew what secrets they shared in that out of way place. The dogs never told, but let out a panting sigh whenever they recalled it. Kitty meowed to herself in the mirror, resolving to sleep a sound sleep that night. By now she had enjoyed so many of these little romps, she could no longer say for certain whether she was born a girl or a cat.

Story #238

Note: This story is dedicated to Tom and Icy.

Captain Max of the Metaphysical Murder Commission was investigating the crime scene. The tearful girl who had called him was quite beside herself. "My dolly's been murdered. Can you help?"

"Was the murder metaphysical?" his standard response ran.

"Yes, I think so," she sniffed, going from crying to confused.

"I'll help."

Via psychic metalink to the cell phone built into everyone's brain these days it was an easy matter for Max to press forward into the murderer's thoughts, while enjoying an Irish coffee at his desk. At the scene of the crime Max examined the jumbled thoughts closely. Yes, he'd seen this hundreds of times before. He doublechecked in his Handbook of Dream Symbology - standard department issue - just to be sure. The mutilated doll was a poignant sight for his hard-boiled eyes, especially since he'd felt like twisting one apart himself on more than one occasion. He kept that detail out of his report, though. The tie lying underneath, now that was obvious. And the die, well, love is a risky business, when you're just starting out. When the girl stopped by to see Max, he knew just what to say.

"You've grown up, haven't you?"

"What do you mean?" she coyed.

"You've kissed a boy."

The girl blushed. The kiss had definitely happened.

Max poured on all the charm he could muster. This was, after all, a girl who kissed. "Look, I know what happened. You're not a little girl anymore. You've discovered boys in such a whirlwind manner that your toys, well, they just self destructed."

Story #237

Note from Indeterminacy: Thanks to Ariel for donating the photo!

It was love at first sight when the demoness came to my door, crying softly to herself. There was no way in heaven I could resist. The urge to take care of her overwhelmed my otherwise casual mentality, wherever seduction is concerned.

The Devil had put her to work tempting males into the evils of fornication and self-manipulation. One way or the other, she usually got her man. But she was sick of it and she wanted out.

"I want out!" her thin thread of a voice hooked into me, as powerful and holy as the cable holding up a church bell.

I promised to do everything to get her out of the clutches of Satan, whom she referred to as the Pimp from Hell. Upon hearing my stand, her face lit up, tightening that hold she had on me like a pleasurable vise. And I don't mean vice! There were no evil or lustful feelings between us, and I was sure that none would develop.

I lay her down on my bed, stroking her gently to calm her down, because she was tense with the fear of Satan's wrath. I began fiddling with the horns on her crown, until they were loose enough to slide off and toss away. I told her of all the things we could do together, how I'd take her to church, and read the Bible to her, and the late nights watching gospel TV. Her emotions must have been as turbulent as mine, for I felt her arms enclose around me, and noticed that her lips were about to press against mine. But before they could, the door bell sounded, causing both of us to jump. I went to see who it was. The Jehovah's Witnesses had come calling. Two of them.

This was a Godsend! I told them the situation and urged them to come inside and help. At the very least, they could offer her refuge in their temple. But my enthusiasm somehow unsettled them, and they backed away nervously. I implored them one last time to help me with the demoness, but then they bolted off, scattering half their pamphlets in the process. When I returned to the bedroom, my demoness was gone. But I thought of her that night as I touched myself.

Story #236

If this story has led you into temptation, there are now two paths you may take: one is dirty and the other is clean.

The girls threw off their shoes and became barefoot zombies. Each footfall drew them further into the perpetual hypnosis of their self-sustaining gait, and they marched, one after the other, a single direction, a single purpose, a single soul. In a dislocated room, mind's eye focused on the phenomenon, sat an aged conjurer in the center of the force, summoning the bodies to him. He uttered the syllables scribbled onto the parchmented scroll, little knowing that he was as much a marionette as the girls had been made so by his repetition of the eternal desirous chant. "Tat-chin-tan-am," he repeated in the ancient Sanskrit syllables, "I want you, that which I have lost." On the scroll was the sketch of a feminine form, rendered erotic by its vagueness. The suggestive lines were to his fertile imagination the seminal source of any and every girl in her years of sexual awakening. He took those lines and wove them into visions of baseness, wrapped them around his ravenous yearnings. Their youth became his youth. When the girls arrived, they did not like how he had ravished them in his waking trance. Without a thought or word, they lined up to slap his face.

Story#235

Thanks for your story contributions, despite my writing so little this week. Stories will be moved to indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

This is one of those "I've been tagged" posts. I probably would have ignored it except it comes from Alix who I would never ignore, and the questions are just right. I've always asked people I met what their favorite books were. It's a great way to find well-kept secrets, and broaden your reading horizons. So here are the four questions:


1. Number of books you own:
I have too many books to count so I'll count the bookcases instead. Two wall book cases. Two as wide and tall as a door, one long one, about outstretched arm's width, waist high, four others, waist high. I think I left out a some. All filled with books. There are also a few boxes of paperbacks in the basement and my son (8) has one bookcase with his books.

2. Last book bought:
Got it today, Sunday, at the Hamburg-Bergedorf Schloss Museum. "Bruno Karbeg Gebrauchsgrafiker in drei Epochen" Saw the exhibit in April coincidentally on the last day. One of the leading ad-designers in Germany from the 20's through the 60's. Some of the logos he designed are still in use today. What interested me most about him is how he refused to use his talents during the Hitler years to further his career. He never worked on propaganda or Nazi themes, though they wanted him to.

3. Last book I read:
Al Franken "Why Not Me?"

4. Five books that mean a lot to me:

Winnie the Pooh (read it when I was little, and was always my favorite)

Carl Jung's writings on Synchronicity: it's part of his collected works in several volumes. The breakthrough learning German was working through these texts, sentence by sentence.

Robert Sheckley's "The Journey of Joenes". It's a brilliant science-fiction satire of the cold war period, early 1960's, including beatniks, told in oral tradition, thousands of years in the future.

Joseph Conrad, "Heart of Darkness". The meaning of life is in that book. I had to read it in college but didn't understand anything. But I had to understand it for the exam, so I forced myself to read it again. And then it clicked for me. I read anything by Joseph Conrad I can get my hands on.

Kurt Schwitters Collected Works, Prose volumes. Yes, the famous Merz artist wrote amazing dadaistic prose (in German). The only way I can describe his unconventional brilliance is that it must have inspired Monty Python.


As stipulated by JJ via flutterby, the tagged must choose five taggees. I choose:

Courtney
Jamie Dawn
Qunicy
Princess Dominique
Mushroom: you can post your answers in the comments, since you don't have a blog.

Anaya pressed herself flat onto the surface. Her instinct demanded it. Toppling forward through millennia of generations a single drop of serpent blood had managed to remain pure in the human organism of her culmination. But that miniscule drop claimed its brood. She moved with painstaking leisure, seeking the heat of the male body to hold her own blood warm. She slithered closer on bare skin to wrap arms and legs around the saline sweetness of her masculine victim. Once upon him she constricted, constricted, until the male screamed, bones crackling and eyes widening in primal horror. His final desire implored what was left of the girl to avail herself of a more human ritual between male and female. This awakened a further hibernating droplet, the blood of a viper. She placed a bite of venomous saliva on the bare nape of his neck, paralyzing him in the midst of death throes and ecstatic lust while crumpling under her tensile muscles. Later, Anaya's senses returned to her, slowly, as if waking from a dream overwhelming in vividness but details intangible. "I need to go on a diet," she told herself as she passed the mirror, "No one's going to hire a fat belly dancer."

Story #234

I've decided to take a short creative pause for a couple of days, partly due to a hectic work situation, partly due to just wanting a short creative pause. Recently I've stumbled across some new (and newer) blogs that I think will be worth following, but please come back here after you've looked at them:

Those of you who miss Retarius and the now defunct Non-Stop Cavalcade of Fun (retarius.blogspot.com) will love this new blog called Saddle Sore Review: saddlesorereview.blogspot.com.

A blog called "The Swaying Hips of Kelly Kell" presents a new kind of counterculture cool that I enjoyed right from the start: kellykell.blogspot.com

Then there's the blogger from hell, Satan himself, taking a walk through the blogosphere, heckling the sinners he comes across. I'm already enjoying the devious humor of it: askthedevil.blogspot.com

I guess everyone is blogging these days. Even aliens, as witnessed by this funny, new blog, which in one of its first posts has revealed the truth about Pansifiles: thealienguy.blogspot.com

Poetess Fiona Robyn, who ran a blog for some time exploring creativity and ways to channel it (creative-living.blogspot.com), has begun a new blog posting daily poetic thoughts, descriptions of fleeting scenes and feelings. Some of the posts might be called expanded haikus: asmallstone.blogspot.com

Icy of the inseperable Tom & Icy duo (oldtommyboy.blogspot.com) duo has a new, secret blog. Woof: speakicyspeak.blogspot.com

Ned Rosen's camera phone journal "Dirty Lense" has been around for a few months. I enjoy his eye for perspective: dirtylense.blogs.com/my_weblog

Last but not least, and all the worse because ladies are supposed to be first, is this sexy, new blog "The Shorter the Skirt, the Higher the Kick" about a gal named Patricia Jenkins who just moved to Sweden. I like the way she titillates: coveries.blogspot.com

"Courtney!" Mother Jamie called out, much like Aunt Em in The Wizard of Oz, imploring Dorothy to come inside during the cyclone, with the difference that Courtney usually was the cyclone.

It had been a quiet evening at home, the family in the living room, Daughter Courtney in her bedroom showing her screenplay to a producer she'd picked up somewhere, when a sudden hush magnified the silence. Knowing the ways of slimy, male producers, or at least, suspecting them, Mother Jamie barged into the bedroom to offer marzipan donuts, which Grandma had just made. Grandma had been trying for years to get rid of her attic full of almonds, an E-Bay acquisition that had puzzled them all. "They're worth money!" she'd insisted.

"Courtney's gone! Her monkey, too!" Jamie shouted, expecting the entire company to erupt into a spontaneous posse. Everyone except Grandpa fell asleep.

"Let her go," the elder Quincy offered, looking up from his Illustrated History of Erotic Art, "It was gettin' mighty crowded here, anyways. And please stop hollerin' while I'm a tryin' to concentrate!"

Jamie organized hubby and son into a search party using the horsewhip she carried for disciplinary emergencies. The three of them took off in the family jeep faster than you could say "Autobahn." After cruising up and down the entire state of California Son Taylor wondered why they didn't just call Courtney on her cell phone to find out where she was.

Courtney's recorded voice greeted them: "I'm at the Grand Canyon with a Hollywood producer and can't be disturbed." Jamie's eyes flashed a bright red, the kind in photos without red eye reduction. They lightninged across Death Valley faster than you could shoot a porno film, and careened over to Arizona, braking just in time to prevent the motor from melting.

Once arrived, they glanced about in some confusion before their calls of "Courtney!" were met. They heard a moan. "That was passion!" screamed Jamie. They charged forward and found Courtney, in a lotus position, near the edge, typing away contently on her laptop. "Oh hi," she said, Zen look on her face, serene in the eye of her storm, "I was just adding some scenes to my screenplay." Another moan drew them to the traumatized producer, hanging from the brink of the four thousand foot drop, by one hand, Courtney's pet monkey dancing from side to side, tormenting him with a stick.

Courtney explained with a devious smile: When the producer offered to work out some new bedroom scenes with her, she had decided instead to bring the cliffhanger aspect into her story. The producer's fear was inspiring. It added just the edge she needed to assure an Academy Award for best screenplay.

Story #233

Disclaimer: Any similarity between actual persons, living or dead, is their own fault for sending me the photo.

Announcement: The May prizewinner for story contributions is ........ Alix! I'll be in touch with you Alix, about the prize (a black and white print of one of my photos). All the stories have now been reposted at indeterminacies.blogspot.com.

"It's your fault!" shouted Marge.
"No, it's your fault!" Mitch shouted back.
"No, it's your damn fault!" Marge shouted again.

Marge and Mitch had just been visited by a real live genie. He shot out of the vacuum cleaner hose like a balloon while Marge was vacuuming. It seems he was selling vacuum cleaners, and giving away free complimentary wishes with each model he sold.

"This is wonderful!" Marge called out to Mitch. "Come here and do a happy dance with me."

The genie watched, a wide smile on his face as the two hopped and skipped, arm in arm, around in circles. He looked very friendly. He was no taller than a leprechaun and just as green.

"Shall we get down to business?" he interjected kindly.

"Well, let's see. First off, we'll take your entire line of vacuum cleaners," Marge started, eyes focussed in the distance, on all the wonders soon to be hers, "and then I'd like a husband who's always amorous, a--"

"You fool!" Mitch broke in "Don't wish yet! It's a trick! You've got to think it over carefully before you wish. Haven't you read all those stories about wishing!?! I'll probably go blind or something!"

But the genie had already lifted his hand for that magical wave that would finalize the wish. Thinking quickly, but perhaps not all too brightly, Mitch lunged forward and slam-kicked the genie against the wall. It broke the genie's concentration all right, but it also broke the genie, who splattered into an interesting wall design, what with the green blood and all. Not even the new industrial strength vacuum cleaners could remove the stain. That's when Marge and Mitch started arguing.

Story #232

Note from Indeterminacy: Check out Courtney's genie story. It's inspired.

Don't forget. Today is Friday. Go over to Michael's blog and write a story for one of the pictures he posted. Then come back here tomorrow, because we'll do the same.

Everyone was trying to keep up with the Joneses, and at first, it worked. The Joneses built themselves a spacious garage with air conditioning and a wide screen TV, for that drive-in feeling. And everyone else built one, too. The Joneses added on two extra levels to their home. Everyone else did the same. A steady stream of delivery trucks visited the quiet, suburban street delivering identical appliances to all the homes, to expand into the newly added levels. But when the Joneses constructed their own private Stonehenge in the back yard, the neighbors revolted. Where were they going to find that many slabs of stone when everywhere they looked was plastic? One night they carried off all the slabs and buried them, leaving behind only a few loose pebbles.

Story #231

Note: This is a repost (and slightly rewritten) of the story I contributed at Michael's Blogin Idiot. His Friday tradition is to invite visitors to write a story to a picture he posts. Check by there tomorrow!

The two girls had to be careful not to tip their hand. One false move, and they might scare off the boy, and they had worked so hard to lower his defenses. Brad watched as they both yawned at the same time.

"Geeze, am I boring you? I could leave," he layed out flatly, like a centerfold with no picture on it. He was ready to abandon the interactive recreation that might await him.

"No, no!" the girls improvised, while thinking how tedious conquests could be. Kitty continued, "You've got us so enthralled. It's just that we stayed up all last night thinking about you."

Brad was appeased. He relaxed slightly on the sofa and studied them, lips forming into a soothed smile. The ruse had worked. The girls continued talking to Brad, the ulterior intent buried under the blanket of their false affection.

But then it happened again. The yawn overpowered both girls at once, as Brad looked on. Kathleen was especially careful to cover her mouth as thoroughly as possible. She didn't want to spoil the surprise. Before Brad could protest again, or perhaps even stand up and slip away, Kitty decided it was time to act. She moved forward and locked her arms around him, pulling him closer, just as she had arranged with Kathleen. It wouldn't do for Kathleen to go first. Kitty merely desired to feed on Brad's emotions. Kathleen, the vampress, would feed on his leftover blood.

Story #230