Is this what is meant by a "parallel universe"? Harry Knutson walked through the door into a Bizarro World where social mores and conventions had long since been dissolved in an acid bath of hedonism. In the feeble light he saw only the undulation of arrhythmic waves of Othello's proverbial beasts with two backs. The one piece of morality that held sway here was the maternal admonition to share. There was sharing going on everywhere one looked.
The door itself was the perfect portal to a nether-realm, or perhaps a fucktopia. It was metal, windowless, battleship grey (where it wasn't rusted), and broke up an otherwise non-descript red brick wall at the back of an equally non-descript single-story industrial park building. No one would expect a soul to traverse through that doorway, but yet they did -- Harry did.
The space had once been partitioned off into offices, a break room, lavatories, etc., but now all the partitions were gone except the one at the front that allowed for a perfectly mundane looking receptions area to be maintained, so that if one looked through the glass frontage of the office space one would think it was just another run-of-the-mill real estate office that went out of business when the housing bubble burst. On the happening side of this partition was a barrier of thick sound proofing secured even to the back of the door. The soundproofing was to ensure that moans and screams of ecstasy wouldn't carry across the street to the plumbing wholesaler with opposing frontage. The owners left the signs up from the previous business. What was more mundane and unlikely to garner attention than a real estate business -- particularly when no one was buying real estate? The landlord couldn't have given a fuck, because he got his check promptly on the first of each month.
It seemed remarkable, even to Knutson, that he'd tracked his quarry down to this of all places. How could this be? Quite simply it was where she let her hair down -- literally and figuratively -- and, furthermore, she must have figured that the private club's security could substitute for her own. That was a rookie mistake, but one that even sharp people could make when they were tired of hiding. Another person's security is never a good excuse to let one's guard down. That other entity's interests will never entirely synch with one's own -- even when they are working for you as this club was ostensibly working for its patrons.
In her daily life she was impossible to track down. First, she stayed at various friends' houses from night to night interspersed with the not infrequent one-night-stands with complete strangers. It wasn't that she didn't have her own apartment, it was just that she was there with such great irregularity that it would make a guy crazy trying conduct a stakeout of it. Second, she worked on a gig basis over the internet -- i.e. no place of employment. Finally, she was either a brilliant tactician who practiced complete randomness in moving through life, or, and this was the more likely option, she was a complete ditz who just blew through life like a butterfly. Either way, discovering and exploiting routine was the key to Knutson's business.
Time was of the essence. Being in a place like this for more than a few minutes without getting naked and finding a hiding place for one's salami was a sure way to attract attention as some kind of vice cop or, worse yet, a picture-sneaking creep. Knutson had called in a favor with an associate who would be on the hook if someone got pissed off with him. He had no interest in invading anyone's privacy -- not even his subject's. He just had a job to do, and wanted to do it and get back out to his real world. He just hoped that he could escape the Bizarro World. Knutson imagined going outside to find some threesome fucking like bonobos on the hood of his car, and then he would know he had forever transited down the rabbit hole and beyond the bounds of the good ole Puritan U.S.of A.
Knutson knew what the girl he was looking for looked like -- sort of. He had seen a number of photos, but knew she changed her hairstyle and color with frequency. It could be hard to identify one particular 20-something white girl in a dimly lit room if you didn't know what her hair looked like and if several people fit the general description. Knutson eliminated the 25% of the crowd that were African American, another 10% that were various varieties of Asian, and 25% that were definitely not in the proper age range or body type. That still left about eight girls that looked the part.
"Can I help you?" Knutson turned to see a man with a shaved head and a tattoo on his neck who looked decidedly unhelpful contrary to the phrasing of his question. Now, for ninety-five percent of the population, it is impossible to look intimidating while naked -- at least if you are being belligerent to a clothed person. One's sensitive parts are all sticking out, one can't possibly be hiding a weapon, and even for exhibitionists there is a certain feeling of vulnerability. This guy was among the five percent for whom it was impossible not to look intimidating while naked. This was one of the areas, like pregnancy, for which there was no middle ground.
"Yeah, sorry, just trying to get my bearings. It's a little dark in here. I'm looking for Sarah Forte. She invited me. This is my first time. I'm a little nervous." Knutson said. Now there is a time during any such lie when time seems to slow as one wonders if one is about to be caught red-handed and punched in the face or whether the lie will work swimmingly. This lie had an extra-long pause because chrome-dome really did seem to be evaluating whether he would believe Knutson or kill him.
Knutson must have seemed convincingly pathetic because chrome-dome hiked his thumb over toward the corner and said, "On the can."
Harry had no idea what those three words meant, but headed in that general direction, happy to get away from chrome-dome and his dangle monster. He soon discovered what the imposing man who vaguely resembled Mr. Clean meant. Sitting on one of the crappers that had, no doubt, once been partitioned off into separate single sex restrooms was a girl with straight jet black hair hanging over one shoulder almost down to her nipple. Harry might have confused her for an Asian girl, but as he got closer her features were definitely Caucasian -- most notably her big vivid eyes. He moved around to take a second look. It wasn't easy to see given the lighting and the high population density in the area of the former single-seater toilet. There was a thick black girl at a wall-mounted lavatory sink next to Sarah's crapper who was washing some skinny white guy's member, and next to the woman Harry thought was Sarah was a standing man with his dick shoved in her mouth.
Harry didn't like to judge, but it seemed a little over the top to suck dick while doing one's business. He suspected she wasn't really voiding her bowels but rather eliminating the jizm from one or more of her earlier partners. Put in this light, it almost seemed like the socially conscious thing to do rather than drip a puddle for some poor unsuspecting foot to step in or to form a cold spot for someone's back to roll into.
Knutson had no idea what the protocol was for getting a moment of time of one who was sucking schlong. Normally, he would have waited his turn, so to speak, but time seemed to be a little short. He was probably going to have nightmares of sodomization by Chrome-dome as it was, but he sure as hell didn't want the nightmares to be memories.
"Excuse me, Miss Forte?" Harry felt ridiculous displaying this kind of formality with a young lady sitting on a toilet who appeared to be very near having her tonsils pressure-washed with cum.
She didn't interrupt her action immediately, but it didn't matter much because a couple more bobs of her head and the young man she was servicing was spurting as he rocked up on balls of his toes from involuntary contractions throughout his entire lower body. The girl was good. When she pulled the dick from her mouth a rope of saliva laced with semen crawled down over her chin and dripped partially down her front but mostly into the toilet bowl.
"Miss Forte?" Harry repeated.
"Call me Sarah. But, sorry, my dance card for the evening is full -- even for a cutie such as yourself." She said, wiping her chin with a paper towel and then dabbing a couple points between her breasts and on her lean stomach where the spunk had dripped.
"It's not about that." Harry said.
She stopped mid-mop and looked at Knutson with stunned and fearful eyes. Her adorable big eyes had a pathetic quality that made Harry involuntarily cringe. He was often called an ass, but rarely felt like one. He was just doing a job, and an important one at that. Despite being naked and doused in the cum of strange men, her face had a sweet innocence about it that made one almost become instantaneously instinctively protective of her. It made Knutson not want to do his job, but a job was a job.
"You are served." He said, pulling a folded envelop out of his inner coat pocket and extending it toward her.
She took the summons reflexively, though it seemed clear that part of her wanted to flee. Harry could see it in her eyes as she reached out to take the envelope. Her eyes darted toward the exit briefly before exhibiting a defeated quality. Harry had found her fair and square. He had no idea what startled her so. All he knew was that it was a witness summons. That shouldn't have been as bad as a summons to appear as a defendant or a summons for failure to appear before the court. Yet the girl eyed the envelope as she flipped it over as if it were a letter from the Army saying her young husband had died in combat.
Knutson felt a hand clap down on his shoulder, and he thought his startled heart would shoot out through his chest - though the slap was consistent with a friendly, if overzealous, greeting. He turned to see chrome-dome flanked by two ladies. One was a buxom blond and the other was lithesome brunette with a "take no shit" look about her.
"Come on, fella, enough with the shyness. It's time to get your freak on." Chrome-dome said turning Knutson around and heading him in the direction of the front of the building and the faux-receptions area. The blond took up a position to Harry's other side, and the brunette was on the opposite side of chrome-dome.
"No thank you. I think I'll be on my way." Harry said trying to break away from the arm chrome-dome had around his shoulder in a jovial but overly familiar way -- particularly given his state of undress.
"Non-sense. Holly and Sonya, here, will take good care of you." Chrome-dome said, clamping down to negate all possibility of escape. As near as Knutson could tell from chrome-dome's head nods, Sonya was the brunette and Holly was the blond.
At that point, Holly began to unbutton Harry's shirt as they were still walking.
"I'm sorry. I think there's been a miscommunication." Knutson said.
