Chasing Robes And Shadows

Copyright PennameWombat May 2020

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This is a direct sequel to my Halloween 2019 story, 'A Tale of Two Parties,' in Erotic Horror.

It also serves as an indirect sequel+sidequel to the "Carole" series, 'Carole at the Art Lecture,' 'Carole at Dinner' and 'Carole at Work & Play,' in (respectively) 'Erotic Couplings,' 'NonHuman' and 'Science Fiction.'

All of that said, this tale can be enjoyed on its own.

Thank you for reading.

Tags: Drugs, Exhibitionism, MF, Older woman, Orgy, Police, Public Sex, Science Fiction, Stripper, Teacher

*****

A Dream Fulfilled

[November 1, 1980]

"Oh, fuck...," Joyce Shaw's voice was languid, rough, "I'm not sure if I regret that I never violated every rule the school district had... Or don't..."

She was on her back, perpendicular on the bed with her head just off the edge. She was naked but for a pair of black pantyhose with the crotch torn out, they were held together by little more than the waistband. The panties she'd had on were another casualty of the night, their remnants left in the joint pile of clothes that smelled of smoke in the entrance way once the combination of lust and adrenaline from their tight escape had been freed from witnesses when they'd entered her apartment. Her hair was wild and sweat-soaked.

Her right index finger found the furthest extent of the white, gooey stream between her breasts and followed it down a torso that had only the slightest bulge to the puddle of cum that sat on the flesh between the waistband and her trimmed dirty blonde pubic hair.

"Did you have that much of that, stuff, in high school? Would you have drowned me if I HAD broken about a thousand laws and faced prison and jumped you when I made you stay after class to read poetry and not that sci fi space squid crap you always had with you?"

"Say 'space squids' with a little respect, word snob! Those books got me through what I... had at home. But, it's been a while," a naked and sweaty Peter Miller's right hand held Joyce's left as he laid at a near right angle to his lover, their legs entangled and his prick at parade rest despite its exertions.

"And... the last few weeks I've had a... situation."

"Nothing new for you," she squeezed his hand as she dragged cum trails around her abdomen, "even if you were a baseball star."

"I wasn't a star, just the only one willing to play catcher."

"Ok, out with it. What's her name?"

"Thought you weren't a teacher anymore, tending to your students' mental health..."

"Students, drug dealers, johns," her turn to snort, "it's all about getting you to talk."

"Before you read the Miranda stuff," their joint laughs were tinged with sadness at the recognition, "something I'd have probably heard like my brother has but for you and Stonebreaker and Jones convincing me I wasn't as stupid as my family told me I was."

"Stop it, asshole," but the last word had no invective, "your girl. You about split me in two. This was our fantasy, both of ours, yes, fulfilled, but well, I wasn't the only one you were fucking..."

"Carole. Brown blonde, kinda like your hair actually, her curls are a bit tighter, petite thing, not much over five feet. But, legs, tits, like..."

"And beautiful? Nothing you ever expected?"

"Yeah," he lifted his head and she turned hers so they met eyes, nodded a bit, "you know her?"

"Don't sell yourself short, you've always been well past decent looking. Good bod, and hell, you're a solid uni student. What's the rub?"

"Just appeared beginning of the school year in a statistics class, sat behind me. She's, well, she's not tall but her chest is, um, impressive. And she knows it. She tapped me on the shoulder, I turned around, she had cleavage like... I saw everything but nipples. And the shortest skirts and shorts I've ever seen. Some of 'em made those cheerleader skirts look overlong."

"Shit, dude," she squeezed his hand again, "woman of your dreams."

"Nightmares, turned out," he knew his voice was harder than he wished, "she even wore an utterly see-through shirt one night to dinner, braless, took off her coat... But---"

"Ah, mega-tease," Joyce said with a lilt, "got it. You rammed all that teasing and tonight's fire and saving a woman's life up my pussy and blew it all over me. That's as good a climax as I've had in a long time too! Not like my love life's been anything to brag about, my sheets are 'hey, we thought you gave this up!' Give me her address so I can send her a thank you note, I expect I'll see that Bonnie when I'm working so I can tell her in person."

Peter laughed with an exhale and closed mouth.

"Pi Beta Phi house, sorority girl."

"Oh, hell, you are stupid. Getting hooked up with sorority bitches! You have it out with her?"

"Nah... just... quit calling, talking, asking her out, she had the idea we'd be doing Halloween... Ignored her in stats class couple days ago, she didn't push things."

Joyce freed her legs and rotated to lay on her side and face him on the bed. A string of his cum trailed her fingers as she found his prick and mingled it with her juice that soaked it. His flesh hardened immediately. The power of youth.

And of lust denied. And fulfilled.

"Get what's left of these stockings off of me," she whispered after she'd kissed along his cheek to his ear, "then make love to me. Me. Good with that?"

He pulled back and kissed her lips and slowly opened her mouth with his but their tongues were slow as they wound around one another. He caressed her right nipple back to the full firmness from which it had partially retreated. He released her mouth and tongue before he slid down the bed and kissed her neck as he went, found each nipple for a moment, then skirted the partially dried and sticky trail of cum she'd shown no inclination to remove. Her hips rose off the bed as he grabbed the waistband and worked the remnants of nylon off of her legs.

That done he pushed her onto her back and found the bottom of her slit, he worked his lips and tongue the length of it and she shivered as he found her erect flesh at the top of it. She put one hand on each side of his head.

"Yeah, that's what I need..."

The Briefing

Officer Shaw carried the largest paper cup of coffee offered by the little shop on the way from her small apartment to the central police HQ basement parking lot. One of the few benefits offered her being a full-time undercover vice officer despite her still-lowly rank was use of the gated basement parking. This allowed her team to avoid prying eyes due to the exposed views into the multi-level garage used by most officers and any members of the public with reason, or requirement, to visit the ugly concrete modernist building. She'd left the long overcoat she'd covered her uniform with in the coffee shop in her car, despite the chilled morning it wasn't needed.

She rarely thought of herself as "Officer" Shaw, but given today's extraordinary meeting she'd worn her class A uniform and for today at least looked the part.

The extra large coffee substituted, she hoped, for the lack of sleep. Peter Miller had left by mutual agreement just past 6:00 a.m. After their first fuck, surprisingly long for such a frantic and energetic fuck, his subsequent efforts had been slow, attentive and she'd been sure he'd not been spent when he'd acknowledged her need to get to the station. Her sex life had been moribund and she'd paid arrears and banked fantasies that might last her the winter. She'd been secretly pleased at his rejection of a ride, had claimed he needed a brisk walk in the November morning chill. She'd guessed he'd almost read her mind.

"Like you told me, if I see you again," he'd whispered into her ear just before they'd kissed a final time, "I'll know I'm in trouble."

"Better believe it."

She mused that even in the midst of her best and most intense fuck in years, the investigator was there. Her guess at her lover's mood hadn't been ESP, he'd muttered a name. Likely had no idea he'd done it.

The evening meant Shaw had exorcised the demon of the handsome boy she'd crushed on as a teacher. She hoped he'd find the resolution he needed with this Carole. And she'd been serious, if they met in her professional capacity she'd come down like a ton of bricks. Fuck that family of his, succeed damn you!

"I've had my eye on you for detective," it was James Pearson's voice, a senior detective whose craggy good looks were marred by a nose broken too many times in his youth, "but you look so good in that uniform we might keep you on the streets."

Shaw stopped and turned, Pearson stood half through a doorway and cocked his head at her, his suit was as ever crumpled, but he was a more than solid cop. He was a decade and some older than her but unlike even some younger cops she could still picture the young Officer Pearson chasing down suspects. He'd indeed been a positive influence on her career but she also knew his interest wasn't purely professional. She hoped if she didn't encourage that latter aspect it wouldn't be an issue.

"Oh, sorry, Jim, bit preoccupied."

"Who wouldn't be," his tone serious but it lightened, "but hey, was gonna get knocked down soon anyway. Just glad I'm not the one burned it down."

He winked.

"Hey, thanks Jimmy," Shaw said, "good to know the department has my back."

She glanced at her watch, mouthed 'shit' and he nodded and gave a quick wave to show he wasn't insulted at the dash. Every cop in the city knew about the meeting and if they hadn't been directly invited made sure they were nowhere close. A derelict church full of low-lifes destroyed by flames had thrown wrenches into a dozen ongoing investigations. Not only that but possibly two dozen people were dead and they'd barely begun to dig into the collapsed end where they knew the Mongrels had set up three floors of crash pads. And while none of the undercover team had been able to get into that area, they knew enough that those crash pads were probably at full occupancy.

A hundred, easily a hundred-fifty could've been in there. And few likely left behind anyone willing to file a missing persons report.

Shaw was pretty sure her expectation was common, that the crew who'd been in place would catch hell, despite the fact that not one of them could've done a thing to prevent or mitigate the disaster. That didn't stop the higher-ups from still thinking they SHOULD have done something. Lieutenant Dennis "Den" Richardson, the operational commander, had been apologetic but after a quick onsite debrief where no one had anything solid had just told everyone to be in the briefing room at 9:00 a.m. the next morning. A Saturday morning.

She'd just walked into the room when she heard a soft and familiar voice cut through the nervous chatter of the near thirty people who milled about. Besides Joyce there'd been five other costumed undercover offices and about double posted outside with cameras and telescopic lenses with night-vision gear.

"Better fix that expression, girl, looking a bit too 'fucked good and thoroughly' you are."

It was her closest friend on the crew Brenda desPlain, the only African-American on the undercover team and one of only a half-score on the entire force, in a city where such residents were almost as rare and growing only slowly. It was a city and a state vastly over-represented by anglos with a significant Hispanic minority.

"Scratched that itch good, huh?"

"Um, hey, how did---"

"I saw you two last night. Once or twice after work, you got too much drink in you, talked about 'that boy at the high school.' I reckoned that was him last night. And he was nicely all grown up. But, how's he involved?"

"Isn't. Uni student now, slumming last night. He's everything I despaired any of my students would be. He made it. That's why, well, why..."

"Enough! I want details and I think I'd rather ply you with drink to get ALL of them."

Shaw's reply was cut off by the sudden silence when a door opened at the front and Captain Rourke marched into the room, Den Richardson trailed with a glum expression.

David Rourke's father had risen to Chief in Los Angeles. When the middle of three sons decided to follow him into police work he'd intentionally left Southern California to demonstrate that he'd rise on his own talents and work, not his father's coattails. Despite his obvious competence his underlings knew he didn't react well to surprises and had a broad definition of insubordination.

"He doesn't look very happy," Brenda's sotto voce statement met with Joyce's quick 'uh huh.' The room went silent as Rourke took his place at the lectern and glowered as his audience settled into chairs.

Rourke indeed wasn't happy. Lt. Richardson didn't have to take the blame alone, his undercover squad was included, although Rourke didn't state it so directly. But his point was clear. The fact that the Captain had ultimately approved the overall plan to 'isolate' the Mongrels at the Church until it was demolished after the new year didn't let him off cleanly. Which meant his rant never devolved into a red-faced, spitting meltdown.

"That out of my system," he inhaled slowly as his audience exhaled almost as one, as slowly and quietly as possible, palpable relief that no individual had been publicly called out. For now at least.

"We dragged in every photo tech who wasn't drunk and they've developed every frame captured last night. Here's a couple."

His right hand rose and the lights went down, the screen to his left lit up from a projector mounted on the ceiling. It was the south side of the Church before the fire, the converted living area.

"There," Rourke said, "above the third floor, just left of center. That looks like a flash of some sort. Subsequent pictures from the same angle showed the rapid spread of the flames but also captured people, many of them naked or near-naked, as they escaped through windows and ground floor doors."

Other photos captured the scene from all points of the compass, streams of costumed people and leather-clad Mongrels as they escaped from any available exit. Cars and motorcycles leaving in haste. Then a badly out-of-focus picture was displayed, what may have been cars and people but even that was unclear. None of the pictures had been crystal clear, the poor lighting and limited exposures had prevented that, but this was beyond poor.

"One thing. These, I want all of the cameras checked and rechecked. We lost a few minutes from the front entrance. About ninety minutes before the fire and in the middle of the rush out. Nothing but fuzz around the front and the parking lot. I'm assured it wasn't operator error but nonetheless, we have gaps about who came in and who went out. What you see is the best the techs claimed they can get. That won't happen again."

His emphasis around 'operator error' made it clear he didn't accept the assurance but couldn't do much about it right now.

"What?" Brenda desPlain whispered and nudged Joyce Shaw next to her at the blonde woman's rough exhale during the Captain's summary.

"Later..."

"If any of you have plans for today that don't involve writing up statements and going over these pictures to put as many names to faces, well, masks, whatever, then cancel those plans. The arson team's with the fire departments and the coroner, should have preliminary report couple of hours. Next briefing at noon. Now, get to it."

"Whatta ya got, Joyce? You tensed when he mentioned the photo issue." desPlain's voice was soft as they stood along with the crowd but delayed their exit.

"Later, not here. Let's give him what we wants then we have a lead to follow. Need to buy some lame grass, that's your department. I handle the sex side."

"Handled that part quite well, I'd say."

Her friend squeezed Shaw's shoulder lightly.

"Ok, girl, your last couple hunches been good, hopefully third time's a charm."

"I do my best."

They trailed the crowd out of the room.

Jake & Bonnie, Adam & Eve

[Mid-November, 1980]

Bonnie Baxter muttered under her breath as she folded clothes and straightened them on shelves that a pack of idiot rich teenage bitches had pawed through without buying anything. Not to mention that her asshole manager Alexandra had caught her muttering 'cunts' at them, when she'd been too distracted to see the tall blonde just behind her.

Always watching, always suspicious. That she'd been made assistant manager when Bonnie had been here longer... Alexa wasn't any smarter, she'd just gone to the right high school. Or more likely she'd sucked off the owner's fat ugly husband so that dried-up rich witch wouldn't get her lipstick or hair mussed up by that bastard who pawed Bonnie and the other girls every time he came in.

Fuck.

She moved to the next shelf, held up a crumpled black hooded sweatshirt, one of the new 'fashion' ones. Black. Hooded.

It had been a week since Halloween and the wildest night of her life. The funnest, most enjoyable night of sex and coke she'd ever had, could've ever imagined having. Until. Until black robed crazies. Eve with her snake and Adam with the biggest cock she'd ever even imagined could exist. Then flames. Smoke.

And knives. Wicked knives. Running. Desperate.

The guy who'd saved her life didn't like her. Didn't like Jake. But he'd risked his life. And that woman with him, older, pretty, Bonnie thought. The two of them had practically carried her out of the building. Peter. Peter Miller. Good looking, but she'd just thought him a college idiot when she'd brushed him off at the first party. Then he'd saved her life.

And Jake. Nothing. Had he been... like... all the others? Not a word. He'd been hurt pretty bad, but still. He'd not mentioned the bag of coke she'd still had in what was left of her dress, she'd given her roommate some but hadn't let on how much she really had. She'd been careful, still had some left. But he'd gotten her a ride home, said he had to find his boss or else. That had been the last she'd seen or heard of him.

Her expression tightened. Her red dress, modern but like a twenties flapper her dad had called it. It hadn't just been a costume, it had been... her... she didn't know the word. Her dad's last, almost only, gift to her, a rare time when he'd been sober, before he'd ODed for the last time. She and her mom had argued again not long after she'd against all odds graduated from high school and she'd gone out and had her hair cut short, shorter than ever before, because she knew her mother would hate it, before she'd gone to her dad's place to stay the night. Her dad said he knew what would go with her hair, some shop full of weird and vintage clothes. She'd found the hat, the 'cloche' on her bed a few weeks later, he was dead a month after that. She was a couple of months into a job at a different shop at Streetcar Square and moved to a small but decent apartment with a girlfriend after more screaming matches with her mom where each blamed the other for her dad's death.

"Excuse me," was that voice, someone... Bonnie blinked her eyes, stared forward, shit, was that Alexa...

"Excuse me, young lady, but could you help me buy something nice for my girlfriend?"

A voice... one she knew? She turned slowly.

Jake Jacobsen smiled and looked at her, but kept his distance of about a yard. His face, no mask. His eye was still discolored but the swelling had gone done. He wore a brown leather jacket over a button down shirt and new jeans.