X-Ray Vision Ch. 07: Outreach

I obliged, wrapping her in my arms, got a satisfied Mmmmmm!

"Hiker, you should be fine once your core temperature returns to normal." I didn't know why I said that; just parroting the Scout manual I guess.

"Maybe you could start a fire to warm us? Don't Scouts start fires with wood? And rubbing?"

She unfolded, still lying on top of me, reached a hand down to stroke my 'wood'.

"Yeeeesss, they do! And pressure; it's important to stroke the hard wood against some flammable tinder..."

She hiked herself further up my body, bringing those lips almost within reach, her face contorted in concentration. Maneuvered my dick to come to rest against something wet and warm.

"I think my tinder is too wet to catch!" She pouted, disappointed.

I shook my head, "No, we'll just have to press firmly. Once it reaches four hundred and fif..." I quit talking, as she'd begun to snug me past her cunt lips, engage me in her body.

"That'll do." It was more than good; it was wildly exciting. I knew intellectually this was my love, my Jillian. But my subconscious didn't care about that; it believed the play-acting without reservation, that I was grappling an innocent hiker girl I'd just met. And it wanted to get inside her very very badly.

"Ah! Ah! Careful!" She was on hands and knees, crouched over my body, moving herself forward and back, each stroke engaging my cock a little more, getting me a little further socketed into her vagina.

I could cum at any moment; I was on a hair-trigger.

"My core temperature is getting warmer! I can feel it! Your hot wood is warming my insides!"

Her goofy prattle struck right at my libido, making my cock harden beyond reason, the head swelling to fill her sex, balls contracting and hardening.

Slitch! Suck! Slitch! Suck! Her sex clutched at my dick as she rocked, lewd sounds loud in the room.

"A little more rubbing, and I think it will ignite!" I put my hands on her shoulders, pulled her down along my body firmly, tilted my hips to jam my cock into hers, seating myself fully in her wet sex channel. Held her that way.

Her butt started shaking, I thought part of the play-acting but no, her eyes were clenched shut, her head on my chest, moaning.

"MMmmmwwwaaaaaaaah! God! Mr. Ranger! Your wood! It's burning me up! I'm going to melt! Ahhhhhh!"

She got suddenly wetter inside, fluids rushing to make my sperm feel welcome, spurting to coat my cock, made us slippery and warm. Her entire body contracting with her orgasm, from the soles of her feet to the muscles in her scalp, one simultaneous pulse of pleasure.

Inside she'd gone from healthy warm girl to spasming sex animal in the space of two heartbeats.

My subconscious knew this was the moment; my balls clenched wildly, began convulsing like a second pulse. My hips of their own accord jammed into her body spasmodically, my cock head battering her cervix, mashing my tip against her opening as my semen jetted, spurted, guttered into her.

My vision went white, my mind blank; I don't know what happened next.

As I regained awareness of the room I found myself still on my back, Jillian still shuddering on top of me, not yet coherent. Her sex was flooded with fluids, hers and mine, pooled inside her, dripping between us.

There was the mother of all wet spots under my butt, my thighs slick with our sex juice. My balls were sore, soggy, dangling limp between my legs, twitching weakly.

My cock was still in her, still firm! Not my doing; my body just loved being coupled to hers I guess. I dared not move it; she was still recovering her wits.

I waited that out, breathing deep, feeling her rise and fall with my chest. This was the best place to be in the world, underneath the love of my life, supporting her, sweaty and sticky and spent, her sex loving mine, her body strong and flushed and savoring my life-giving semen, coaxing it close to her womb. Safe and warm and loved.

She relaxed, her muscles releasing their tension, flopped off of me, coming uncoupled with a lewd splurch, rolled on her back. She grabbed the blanket, flung it off as the heat of our passion billowed out in waves.

We stared at the ceiling for a bit, naked, sweaty and exposed, listened to the rain, reviewing the last few minutes in our minds, marveling at the power of suggestion. Feeling the soreness, the sticky skin, muscles warmed and softened.

"Greg, if we ever do that again, I think it might just kill me."

I giggled, not quite in control of my emotions, stifled it.

"But what a way to go!"

After starting laundry, a big load this time including the entire bedclothes, we spent the remainder of the lazy rainy holiday indoors, reading and chatting. Like an old married couple, happy with our simple life, safe from the storm and with each other.

...

Nick

Morning passed like usual - if I can say that, only been here like two weeks, one a short week, three-day weekend. But a pattern - phone lines open, everybody grabs a call, talk some poor sod down from the ledge who's panicking about spending time in jail. Worse, a lawyer, think they'll get some special rate for their client but the boss says no way Jose, charge them the standard rate and only if they can convince you they'll not bolt, run for the state line. Lawyers promise the moon but sure, it's not their money.

Not had a skip yet, that's what Jillian called them, a skip, everybody's paid the premium, made their court date. I got a little nervous a time or two but fingers crossed this week goes as well.

One guy, my first day! had a skip, hadn't asked the right questions, hadn't even tried. I heard the boss lady (not Jillian, the woman in the corner office, you can always tell the boss that way) reaming poor ol' Dewey up one side and down the other. He just stammered and made excuses, it was clear he was shit at this job, a pushover. Jillian got to walk him out the door, which was cool.

I like the work, don't get me wrong, Jillian saved my ass by getting me this gig, getting me a place to stay. At the Pham's, a great couple, got a lot of neat stories about the old country. And some pretty grim ones too. Still it's all good for me, pay is low but regular, better than band rigger, my old job.

I'm even saving a bit. Well, part of one paycheck anyway, under my mattress. I'm grateful but I want to move along in this business, maybe do field work. Collection, skip-tracing, even bounty work! That would be the best. Not sure how to start, but I figure this place might give me an opening to try some of that.

Kelly says two of the desk folks got a chance, a couple years back (how long has Kelly been here?), did some collection, some home visits. Both of 'em quit right after - too rough she figured. Not really safe to roust desperate people, looking at jail time, maybe even guilty, thinking of running, leaving the boss holding the bag.

Takes a certain mental toughness, not many have it. I think I do, but what do I know?

Oh! Got a girlfriend, maybe. Khang, she's Jillian's sister somehow, never mind how, doesn't matter. Had a coupla dates. Sweet little woman, pretty as a model. Smart as hell, makes clothes! A designer, she put together an outfit for me, I look like somebody now. Makes me feel good, feel like I matter. Nobody did that for me before.

Did it for Jillian too, looks like Wow! in that little black dress, microscopic! All the right curves, saw her at the club and, well, sploosh! Anyway she's with Greg, those two are like joined at the hip so not gonna get anywhere there.

Khang is a firecracker! Aggressive, knows what she wants, tells you right off, no fooling around with passive-aggressive shit. Likes it a little rough, I gotta be careful, she's maybe 110, 120 dripping. I mostly fend her off, let her pull hair, tell her she's a bitch, a little biting, some slap and tickle. She likes it when I hold her down, go to town on her ...

Anyways, most days Kelly and I go to lunch, talk shop, talk music, whatever. It's nice to have a friend - I guess Kelly is a friend? And Jillian too if I'm honest, though she's the office manager so I have to play nice.

And Khang of course. New for me, eat her cooch but still friends, usually that makes it something else.

Back from lunch today, Vietnamese again, I never get tired of it. No such thing as bad Vietnamese food, all healthy stuff and fresh ingredients, as hot as I want it. To convince the waiter I'm serious about the heat I order in Vietnamese, then they believe me.

Afternoons are slack, I asked Kelly about that.

"Oh, everybody that came in late afternoon, overnight, court does arraignments first thing in the morning, all the calls for bonds are right after. They try cases in the afternoon, then not so many calls. Around here anyway. That's eleven counties around, that many county courthouses plus state, no federal cases here, that's all up in the big city."

What it means is we have maybe fifty lawyers with multiple clients needing bail every morning. Small shit by and large - assault, D&D, malicious mischief, property damage. Bail is needed for anything violent, so mostly we deal with hot-heads copping an attitude.

I don't mind, it's a blast telling them they're gonna pay for their ass-holerey. They get mad, make threats, I just sit tight until they go quiet, then quote the rate again. They fold, they always fold, the only alternative is a cell which their ego won't let them go there.

Afternoon is a trickle, stuff that comes in late or guys making a second call, refused by the first place they tried. Got to be selective, I've said No a time or two. Kelly backed me up - she says better paper is preferred to more paper. Means, only accept when you're good and sure, even if it means passing up a premium.

I don't know why the boss doesn't send some of us home, half the desks are idle now. Maybe she has enough trouble keeping people, wants to give us enough hours we don't go looking for another job?

Anyway I get bored real quick so I'm glad to grab a call soon as the board lights up, helps pass the time, makes the day go by easier. I do 45, maybe 50 calls every day, most of them result in paper. The boss is making bank! Except for the forfeitures, that has to hurt. Hope it all evens out in the end.

Jillian is pretty chill today - letting things happen, letting us do our job, just watching the room, chatting with the boss in her office. I think she got some this weekend, maybe got a lot, the way she's all quiet and relaxed. Can always tell.

She's in there now, laughing about something with the boss. I woulda expected her to hit the street like most afternoons, recruiting. We have an empty desk since Dewey left. Two really - Jillian takes calls in the morning like the rest of us. Once she fills that desk, replaces herself, she's moving on to other things.

I like that about Jillian - not too good to get her hands dirty. I like most things about Jillian. Too bad she's with Greg.

She's coming out, I expect she'll hit the street. But no, she's coming over here.

"Nick! The boss has a problem, I said maybe you would be interested."

I perked up at that. Ask and you shall receive, my old man used to say that, until he threw me out anyway.

"What's the deal?"

"A home visit, a bounced check. Probably nothing. She called a skip-trace, they can't get there for an hour, she wants to get on top of it."

The check was important, gotta get paid. But more important was making sure they make their appearance, else the boss is out maybe ten times that much on the forfeit bond.

"I'm in! Who'm I working with?"

"Knew I could count on you! Dallas. Here's the address, the bad check. Knock, return the check, get cash. Any trouble, wait for Dallas."

I'd seen Dallas here once, tough broad, leather pants and a SWAT jacket, maybe ex-police? Something like that. This was gonna be great.

I took the check, the address slip, a bank zipper bag for the cash. Jillian had some more deets, about his job, his offense.

"Across town? Not familiar."

Jillian fished in her pocket, pulled out keys. "Take my truck. It's over the hill, a trailer park by the creek. Nice place I hear, but we do see those addresses quite a bit."

Trailer parks get a bad rap. Affordable housing, lots of nice folks need that. A few bad apples...

"Your baby? You just got this truck! I'll treat it like my own."

She smiled, not concerned. Jillian is cool.

...

The address was a number and the court name. Cruised the loop, numbers stenciled on the curb, usually, except where the curb was broken or repaired. Nice place as these things go, plenty of flowers by the curb, no trash.

Found what I think is the right one, no number but between the number on each side. Not bad looking, grill in the small fenced yard, lawn furniture, shed in the back, no dog.

Nobody else here, no vehicle in the tiny parking spot. Certainly not Dallas, can't miss Dallas, fills every room she's in. Should I wait?

Nah. Maybe nothing Jill said, I get the job done, she can call off Dallas, save a hundred bucks.

The steps to the door wobble, they need to drill and bolt the iron frame, somebody could get hurt but whatever.

I open the screen door, screeches like a banshee, peer through the tiny glass door panel, can't help it, invasion of privacy but I like to know what I'm getting into. Some sheer curtain stuff, can't see much. Maybe movement? That would be good, somebody home.

I knock, loud, call out "Mr. Watson! It's Nick, from Crinshaw Bail Bonds! Can we have a talk?" in my best butch voice.

Nothing. Well, maybe nobody home. That could be good or bad. I knock twice more, not getting my hopes up.

Maybe I have the wrong place? Step down into the yard, look around. Nothing gives me any inspiration.

What would Dallas do?

The mailbox? It's by the curb, on a rusty metal post. A federal offense looking in there, but as long as I don't take anything...

Three ads for 'Occupant', and one for "R. Watson". Bingo. I have the right place. And he's been here recently, yesterday anyway, else the box would be stuffed.

Most cars gone, folks at work but Mr. Watson worked nights in Sanitation according to Jill. Maybe just asleep? I knocked pretty loud.

One rusty muscle car down the way, parked on the end of the street next to the sign that said "No street parking". I walked down, peered thru the windows.

Pretty clean, somebody was proud of it even with the rust. Two-seater, dust on the passenger seat but not the driver side. Been driven lately?

Open mail on the dash was the only litter. Leaning on the hood, craning my neck, got a look at the envelope, partly obscured but I could see "atson" and the postmark was yesterday.

So he's home. Or has two cars, which seems unlikely.

I hear a rumble, around the loop comes this mean-looking SUV. Tinted windows, way more than legal, cruising slow. Not my man either; no way Mr. Watson owns that.

Dallas? My money is on her.

I'm walking back and the SUV pulls to the curb at my mark's house. Engine off, just sits there for a bit. I walk to the gate, wait to see what's next.

Drivers' door opens and I see over the roof a shaved head, broad shoulders. Dallas! My heart jumps for some reason. Get a hold on yourself! Don't want to act like a dweeb.

"You from Crinshaw?" This from Dallas.

I nod, she came over, I reach to shake her hand but she ignores it, scanning the trailer, the lot, the street.

I look her over; notice a rip in her leather pants, on the calf. She notices me noticing.

"Fuckin dog. I hate dogs." She looks at it; just a scrape, a little blood. Dismisses it.

"What we got?" Doing recon before she takes any action. My pulse is racing, from the situation or because this enormous gorgeous hunk of woman dressed like a commando is talking to me?

"Works nights; should be home. No response to my knocks or voice. Mail in the mailbox for R Watson, not a lot. Car down the street," I pointed at the old muscle car, "has the same name on some mail, postmark yesterday, clean, maybe driven recently, no dust on the drivers side."

She looked at me for the first time. "You done this before?"

I shook No, stayed quiet, waiting to see what came next.

She hiked down the sidewalk to get a look at the backside of the trailer. I followed but not too close.

Blank wall but for a tiny square frosted window, bathroom? The kind that swung open from the bottom, open maybe an inch or two now.

I saw her decide. "What's the plan?"

She looked at me again, sized me up.

"That your pickup?"

I nodded; it was Jillian's but for the purpose of this conversation it was mine.

"Park it in front of his car, box him in. Just in case."

That was all she had to say so I pulled out my keys, got in and backed it until the bumper kissed his. Returned on foot.

Dallas had a battery drill in one hand, fetched from her trunk. "I'm gonna do a forced entry in the front. He comes busting out, I got him. Or Mr. Watson will maybe try to get out that bathroom window.

"If he does, wait for him to hit the ground, get on top of him, keep him there. Twist his arm?"

I nodded; that was all doable. I'd had to roust folks at band venues, didn't take much to subdue a regular citizen. I didn't figure Mr. Watson for any kind of tough; just a regular guy under pressure.

"You ok with breaking and entering?" My question. A forced entry sounded over the top?

She grinned a tight grin. "Not really gonna do anything; just make some noise, rattle the door, spook him. Won't even leave scratches on the lock. If he's in there, he's gonna panic."

All good with me. Nothing like a little theatre to flush the rabbit!

I took my position quietly, vaulted over the fence, went to the back wall stealthily, waited beside the window where I couldn't be seen from inside, heart pounding.

Dallas made an obvious noise going in the gate, clomping up the steps in those boots, shrieking open the screen door, knocking like a ton of bricks.

"Mr. Watson! We're here to detain you on suspicion of fleeing bail, intending to evade!" All bullshit, there wasn't any such offence, but would he know that?

"Mr. Watson, I'm coming in!"

I heard the drill start, heard Dallas bumping and banging on the front door like she was intending some serious damage.

Sudden rattle from inside! Quiet for a moment, then the window started to move.

I saw hands stick out, fiddle with something - disengaging the bar that swung the window out, pushing the window wide, slowly, carefully, so as not to make much noise.

Then nothing. Second thoughts? Dallas chose that moment to start battering the front door like she was gonna break it.

That did it; hands on the sill, a head stuck out. Clearly Mr. Watson, a little guy, maybe he could really fit through!

Arms out next, then shoulders, wriggling, tight fit, pretty soon half of him was dangling out the window. Something fell inside, his feet flailing, knocking something over. His face showed panic, looking down, looking at his car, but not looking at me.

Once he got his hips through he slid like a sack of flour, arms out to catch his fall, hit the ground with an Ooof! He lay still, face down, the wind knocked out.

My cue! I stepped up, crouched, put one knee in his back, grabbed one arm and brought it around.

"Hey!" That's all he got out, then "Ow! Ow! Ow!" as I torqued his shoulder, pulling his arm up tight.

"Mr. Watson, can we have a word?" Always be polite to the client, that was the rule at Crinshaw.

Dallas came around just then, saw me restraining him, and I saw the first big grin out of her, didn't know she could even do that. Felt a pulse of pride, hot in my chest.

"Mr. Watson, you want to come along nice, have a talk? We just want to talk.

"Or should my colleague here put cuffs on you?" Talking shit; I didn't have any cuffs.