Dee Saves the ProgramChapter 15
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Dee Saves The ProgramChapter 24 free porn video
"I tell you, nothing happened up on that stage yesterday. Nothing happened. Nothing! Nada. Zero. Zilch!"
I was in the infectious isolation ward, namely my bedroom. Missy was reporting in to me after having debriefed her minions at school. She was wearing a surgical mask, courtesy of Dr. Elaine Smathers's pantry of prophylactics. And if you're thinking "prophylactics" means "condoms" get your mind out of your groin and look the word up in the dictionary.
"I'm a sick woman. Don't mess with me, Missy, or I'll rip that mask off you and sneeze in your face!"
For a moment I almost thought she was lying to protect her Mom's passion for Pastor Paul and his so-called One True Church, but came to what I had of my senses, given my cold. After all, Missy had been fondled, however briefly, by one of the Pisstor's — as I'd come to think of him — minions. She'd hang the Pisstor before she'd defend him, even for the sake of her mother.
"Nothing! Happened!" she repeated redundantly.
"But I SAW it! I saw that girl go under the podium. I saw Pastor Paul come, right there in front of the whole fucking congregation. It was as plain as the orgasmic grimace on his face."
"No, we did not actually see her go under that podium," Missy argued patiently. "We only thought we saw it. We didn't see him come, either. That was all an act. We saw what we wanted to see, not what happened."
"How do you know?"
Her inhale sucked the paper mask against her face, making it wrinkle and crinkle — not her face, the mask. Her exhale ballooned the mask out.
"Mom always tapes the broadcasts so she can rerun it Sunday afternoon and then wallow through her favorite parts during the week," she admitted wearily. "Yesterday, pretending to be a dutiful daughter, I watched with her during her usual Sunday matinee replay. Trust me, it was nauseating deja vu all over again, and I still wasn't sure what we'd seen. So I sneaked down after Mom and Dad had gone to bed and watched just that part in slow motion until I was sick of it.
"The girl did not go under the podium," she concluded confidently after another crinkle punctuated breath.
"But ... but ... but." I was so sure we had him dead to rights I was sputtering like a motorboat.
"But ... but ... but," she mocked. "While everyone was moving around the girl simply walked offstage and returned with her water bottle, rejoining the choir after the story. Not that I wouldn't put it past him to pull such a stunt, but in this case he didn't. He faked it."
How could I have been mistaken? My mind was trying to race, not very successfully.
It was all there, the misdirection, the distractions, the missing girl, the orgasmic delivery of Pisstor Paul's polemic to his adoring acolytes, everything. It was obvious!
Too obvious? The Stick suggested.
Shit! Why didn't you say something sooner? I asked my head-space companion.
Don't blame me. Remember I see the world through your eyes.
But think. What if what you thought you saw was exactly what he wanted you think you saw, but didn't?
Sorting out that twisted syntax bent my brain. Then I considered the implications. Then I practically levitated right off the bed, a blast of near-homicidal rage rattling my throbbing sinuses. "That sonofabitch! That dirty, double-dealing mother-fucking shit-head bastard!"
As I weakly flopped back down on my pile of pillows, drained by my eruption, I mentally chucked a roll of quarters in the curse jar downstairs, figuring I'd owe more than that before I was done with that prick.
"What?" Even Missy was rocked by that explosion.
"You're right," I admitted weakly.
"Of course I'm right. Uh — right about what?"
"It didn't happen. Don't you see? It was all a performance, the whole fucking thing, right down to his last breathless 'Thanks be to God!' No wonder the sonofabitch looked so smug as we walked out past him. He set me up. He wanted me to think I had him dead to rights, thinking that he'd gotten a blow job right in front of us, in front of the whole fucking congregation, and I went for it hook, line and stinker. Fuck!"
"Huh?"
"Don't you understand? It was a sham! It was a double-cross. He knew we'd be looking for something incriminating and faked it to make it look like it was what it wasn't."
After a moment of brow-furrowing thought she caught on, her eyebrows shooting skyward. Then she had another thought. "So what are you so upset about? You should be relieved that he didn't take advantage of the poor girl."
"Sure! I am glad for that, but don't you see? He fucked with me. He staged the whole thing just to suck me in. If I'd gone to the cops with what I thought I'd seen all he'd have to do was show them his own recording, or just give them a look at the podium to prove there's no room to hide anyone inside it. I'd look like a fool and the cops would never believe me again."
I sucked in a deep breath and suffered a coughing fit that made my ribs hurt, finally hawking up enough phlegm to fill a bucket. Now that's what's known as a productive cough. Ick!
"That miserable, no good double-crossing motherfucker!" I wheezed out.
Mom must have heard me coughing 'cause she stuck her head in my door. When I reassured her with a nod and a weak wave she retreated, but not before waggling a scolding finger at me. I didn't know whether that was because I'd over-exerted myself into coughing up parts of my lungs or because of my cursing.
"You're just mad 'cause he outsmarted us," Missy suggested pertly.
Gotcha! The Stick chimed in.
I made a face at her because she was right. "Yeah, but I'm blaming myself. And don't give me that 'us' shit. It was my fault. I talked you into seeing what wasn't there. You wouldn't have seen it if I hadn't planted the idea in your mind. I was so sure! What an idiot I was."
"What? You don't think I can make up my own mind? You didn't plant the idea in my head, all you did was look at me. I'd already had the same thought. So we both fucked up. So deal with it."
"Yeah, right," I grumbled. "Anyway, thanks."
"For what?"
"For saving me from making an ass of myself in front of Maria and everyone else down at the station." After a minute of counting backwards by threes I managed to get myself back on track. "So what happened during coffee hour?"
"Nothing."
"Didn't your spies stay for the coffee and cookies? Fran would never miss a shot at free cookies. They were supposed to check out the classrooms and stuff."
"They hung out and they looked around, but they didn't see anything because there was nothing to see. Nothing happened.
"Figure it out," she went on. "With all those parents hanging around? You know as well as I do the bad stuff happens one-on-one, like with you and The Worm, or at least only in the company of fellow perverts. The day I got groped Brother Edward got me alone by asking me to help tidy the room."
"So what happened to your triple-cross-my-heart promise that you'd have stuff for me?" I knew I was being mean, but I felt shitty, and now this. "I hate to sound ungrateful, but we need to establish probable cause" — Cripes, now I was even talking like a cop! — "so they can get some warrants. Where's our evidence?"
She looked gloomy. "I don't know. Maybe you'll find something on this. It's from A. J." She handed me an unlabeled DVD.
"What's on it?"
"I don't know. He wouldn't tell me. I know he had his laptop with him at the service yesterday. He just slipped it to me at school and told me to give it to you. Said you'd know what to do with it."
She checked her watch. "I'm sorry, Dee, I got a ride waiting. Damn I wish you hadn't moved across town!"
"Me, too," I agreed, wishing I could hug her. She left me propped up in my bed, still trying to catch my breath, my throat sore, my head throbbing, sunk deep in a serious mope.
Finally, with nothing better to do and not much hope I dragged my laptop up off the floor, stuck the disk in and called up the directory.
There was a shitload of folders labeled with stuff like "SecCam" and "Fin" and "Prov," the kind of names that'd be meaningful only to the user, and if it was encrypted ... I didn't like to think of that, so I started opening folders. Five minutes later, my hands shaking, I was on the phone to Maria.
Before she arrived I took the disk out and carefully fogged both sides of it with my infectious breath and wiped it clean with a tissue. I knew at least two people had to have handled it before me, and from what I'd seen I didn't want any fingerprints on it, especially A. J.'s or Missy's. If the cops dusted it — which they would — they'd be on anyone who'd handled it like stink on shit.
When my favorite detective got there her oh-so kissable mouth and sparkle-adorned nostril were surgically masked. After putting the disk back in my 'puter we spent the next hour side-by-side on my bed — oh how I wanted to have her in my arms! — studying what A. J. had downloaded off Pastor Paul's network. Even to my uneducated eye there was enough stuff on there to put a lot of people behind bars for a long time to come.
The mildest was in the SecCam folder. The church apparently had security cameras — probably simple web cams — in every nook and cranny, including the old school annex's classrooms, the gym, locker rooms, showers and bathrooms. It was a voyeur's wet dream.
Out of the goodness of their hearts — yeah, right! — the church ran well-advertised athletic programs and other afterschool stuff to keep "our precious youth" off the streets and out of trouble. By the looks of their clothes, when they had 'em on, some of these kids had been living on the streets, others merely in poverty. Trading the sidewalks for a meal and a warm shower, literally at the hands of Pisstor Paul and his fellow pervs, was a bad bargain.
Free child-care my ass! Those kids paid with their bodies. Shots of the showers showed a surprising number of men, and even a couple of women, helping both sexes wash off the grime and sweat. The footage was silent, but I could almost hear the adults saying "don't tell anyone, this'll be our secret" as they violated the kids' trust and their bodies.
There were enough different adults to make me suspect he was running a rent-a-kid operation for every perv in the county, maybe from out of state.
Beyond the security cams there was raw full-motion, full-color footage that was ... well, raw. I'm no stranger to sex, even exotic and sometimes what some would call perverted sex, but always by my choice. What I saw them doing to some of those kids at that age — some maybe eight or nine or even younger — made me sick to my stomach.
Pastor Paul himself took obscene pleasure from not sparing the rod, leaving wicked welts before giving some of his victims the shaft — his shaft. One of the targets of his pleasure was Horace's pale tail. If it weren't for bad luck that poor shit would have no luck at all.
That was in the folder labeled "Prov," which name had me puzzled until I remembered the proverb about sparing the rod and spoiling the child. Some people call that tough love. Some love! That's an invitation to abuse if ever I've seen one.
Then there was footage taken at his summer camp's lake that made me wonder why my relay team had to keep our suits on for our motivational bump-up. I wasn't about to forget that meet. It was the only loss we had that summer. And yeah that still sticks in my craw.
Keeping up appearances, of course The Stick informed me caustically.
There were folders of other stuff — "Fin" seemed to have spreadsheets, others contained address lists, emails that didn't mean much to my snot-clogged brain. I let Maria skim through it, trying to remember some of her muttered Hispanic invective for future reference. Obviously there was stuff on there that should never have been on the network. Someone had been criminally stupid.
But then they were criminals, after all, so what else should I expect?
When Maria was done she sat back. "Where'd you get this Chiquita?"
I took the disk out of my computer, handling it carefully by the edges, and slipped it into a fresh, unused sleeve. "I can't tell you."
"Can't tell me or won't tell me?" She took it from me as if it were a time-bomb.
"Is there a difference?" I knew there was, of course.
She let that pass. "Who else has seen what's on it?"
"Nobody, as far as I know for sure."
Well, it wasn't quite a lie. I didn't know for sure that A. J. had seen at least some of it, but I wasn't about to mention him to Maria unless she pushed.
Fortunately she didn't dig any deeper than the person who gave it to me and I could reassure her about that.
"You tell anyone you think of who might have seen this disk or anything that's on this disk to forget they ever saw it. If anyone asks about it the answer has to be 'what disk?' Comprende?"
Her Hispanic tripped my own linguistic switch. "Por qué?"
"Because your dear Pastor..."
"He's not my dear anything! He's a 'Pisstor' to me."
"Suits. We suspected he was in with some very, very, very bad people and this proves it. If those people find out we got this they'll be gone with the wind, but before they disappear they'll clean house, and some people will wind up dead, probably starting with the Pisstor. Remember that Robin Hood was after you on the archery range? We gotta keep him in isolation or he'd already be on his way to his happy hunting ground."
I felt a chill. "You think Paul's the head of it?"
She shook her head. "No. He's a pervert, not a mobster. But he's sure in bed with 'em, and that's why he'd be the first to go. So you never saw this, right?" She slipped the DVD into an inside pocket of her shoulder bag.
"Saw what?" I responded obediently.
She nodded. "Don' say anything to anyone about this, and tell your sources the same thing. If word got out these pinche cabrones" — I knew that translated roughly into fucking bastards — "would leave a pile of dead bodies — an' one of them might be yours — before they vanished and we'd never catch up to 'em."
No shit, Sherlock.
Hush!
She obviously had another thought. "You didn' make a copy of any of this on your system, did you?"
I shook my head.
"So what happens now?"
"We gotta get warrants, make plans. An' we gotta do it fast. Better for you you don' know nothing." When she's upset or excited her accent thickens and grammar deteriorates.
I so wanted to be there to bring that prick down, but she read my mind.
"Not you, just us cops! You stay away from that puerco (pig) Pisstor. Don' have nothing to do with him. No more, no más, no way! He gets pushed into a corner he's likely to turn an' bite you."
"What about Missy's Mom? Can't I warn her? When this goes public it's gonna break her heart!"
"Nothing to no one, Chiquita! If one whisper of this gets out the whole thing will blow up in our faces. Especially not her. You think that woman could keep her mouth shut?"
I could only shake my head. The woman in question was totally demented when it came to her choice of pastors.
"An you be careful what you say on the phone, even."
"My cell... ?"
"Especially your cell."
Shit! How could I warn Missy and A. J.? Well, I'd think of something. "How long?" I asked.
She knew what I meant. "To get warrants? Depends. Not more'n a week, I hope."
Maria left me stewing in my sickbed.
It was going to be a long week.
And where was Greg while all this was going on?
Always in my heart and in my mind. Often by my side, but not as often as I would have liked. In my hand, my mouth, my cunt or my ass as circumstances allowed, which was not often enough for either of us. But for my cold he would have been in my bed at that moment if I'd had a choice.
Of course on Sunday he'd been at the Restored Temple of the Holy Redeemer Reformed Evangelical One True Church. I saw him, he saw me. But because of the undercover nature of our assignments we were no more than ships that passed in the night. But by Thursday, thanks to skilled nursing, I was back in school with him instead of at home a-bed and a-bored and a-chewing my nails.
And how did this miraculous recovery come about? What is it they say? Treat a cold and it'll be over in seven days, ignore it and it will take a week.
And here it had only been four days.
I credit my two Moms, one of them a board-certified physician, for tag-teaming me with their remedies. The moment I'd gotten home from church Sunday I had been prescribed massive oral infusions of Doctor Smathers's Weapons-Grade, Professionally-Prepared Chicken Soup (Registered Trademark) at temperatures that threatened to blister my palate. That unleashed buckets of revolting nasal emissions to sweep away the viral hordes. It alternated with mega-doses of Vitamin C and zinc from Mom Number One calculated to kick-start my immune system, washed down with kegs of orange juice.
As I absorbed dose after dose one sentence out of my sick-bed reading kept running through my mind. "Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?"
As far as King Henry II was concerned Thomas a Becket was a royal pain in the ass.
I know, I know. I read too much, especially history, and to compare Pisstor Paul to Thomas a Becket is to slander the noble Sir Thomas. And I sure as hell wasn't any Henry II. But the sentiment fit.
Maria may have been after bigger fish, but my focus was on the kids being tormented. I kept praying for the sky to fall on the church and the river to rise and sweep it all away. The situation ate at me so much I even tried to distract myself with Goethe's Faust, part of my German homework.
It turned out to be a poor choice of escapist literature. What's the first thing Faust does after striking his deal with the devil? He uses his newly acquired powers to corrupt an innocent young girl, making her pregnant. What is it with these old farts, anyway? Is there nothing new under the sun?
Anyway, I'd been climbing the walls, driving my moms crazy. That probably encouraged them to declare me non-contagious and release me on the world.
I welcomed being back in school, the distractions offered by my friends, classes and lunch followed by more classes. Then Coach flogged us through swimming practice, showing me no mercy, flushing the last remnants of congestion from my skull with chlorinated pool water, leaving my head clearer, the pool filters toxic, my body exhausted and brain aglow with endorphins.
The high point of my day was luxuriating in the post-workout shower with Greg. Trust me, there is no more wonderful sensation than your lover's hands laving your whoooole body with soap under a hot shower after a hard workout, unless it is returning the favor, of course, exploring and appreciating all the curves and lines, the nooks and crannies and appendages. It was a squirming, giggling (me), chuckling (him) tangle as we simultaneously tried to reach the most interesting parts while not missing any of the less exciting.
And never mind that we had the whole swim team, boys and girls, as an audience. They were used to it anyway, and some even followed our example. We weren't about to wait for them to finish their shower and leave us alone with our lust. It had, after all, been a while since our last sexual interaction — six days, twenty-three hours and fifteen minutes to be exact, but who's counting?
We lathered each other with soap from top to toe, which got our juices flowing. Avoiding mouth-to-mouth interaction — fearing I might still be contagious, Dr. Smathers's professional assessment to the contrary — had its benefits. Leaning against the shower wall, resting my forehead on my forearms, I offered Greg my delectably tight ass. From behind he reached around me, one soapy hand massaging my boobs, pinching my rubbery nipples into flame while the fingers of the other explored my swampy crotch. His jutting cock nudged suggestively at the crack of my butt.
Oh yeah!
For a time I lost myself in the total bliss of Greg's manual explorations. When difficult thoughts crept past my mental shields I reached blindly behind me and curled my fingers around his throbbing rod, relishing it's hot, hard strength, savoring the chance to enjoy our love, anticipating its penetration. I milked his prick and it responded with an encouragingly hot spurt of pre-come.
After Maria's visit I'd warned Missy and A.J. through secure channels to avoid any leaks about the existence of the computer disk. Still I kept returning to the problem of preserving the faith of good members like Missy's mother.
So in our post-swim shower, to banish those concerns I concentrated on toying with Greg's dick. I took my time making sure it was really really slippery with soap before I encouraged him to put it where I most wanted it. I knew the moment I'd offered him my ass he'd be more than willing to penetrate that tight, dark hole. Guiding the head of his dick to my rear door I arched my back to present my puckered opening, pooped out a bit against the nuzzling tip of his woodie, my insides all squinchy anticipating how good it would feel to have Greg slowly slide his cock up inside that dark passage. It wasn't the same as taking it in my cunt at all. It was like having an itch way up inside there and scratching it real hard.
Happily indulging my perverted pleasure, Greg began working the tip of his pecker into my sphincter, wedging it open, making it stretch and sting. Ahhh, at last, at last, at last we were coming together, or soon would be. With the plummy head wedged past the tight ring of muscle he gripped my hips with his strong fingers and ever-so-slowly and thoughtfully and relentlessly drove his stiff rod up inside me. I was gasping and he was grunting as he powered his way in, deeper and deeper, until his hips pressed against my buttocks and he was completely buried inside my rectum.
I was almost able to completely lose myself in the sensation of having my bottom totally packed with Greg's hot, hard, living cock.
Almost.
"Hard!" I urged, eager to abandon myself totally to my buggery.
Ever willing, Greg withdrew, powered back in, driving me against the wall as I braced myself for his thrusts.
"More!" I urged. "Fuck the shit out of me!"
Which is exactly what he did. Oh God, it felt so good! I reached down and curled two fingers up into my cunt. I scraped at my G spot while Greg's dick burned through my anal sphincter, in and out, in and out.
"Faster!" The impact against my ass jolted me all the way up my spine. I was pumping my fingers in my twat, mashing my clit with my palm, until nothing existed for me but the roaring flames of my coming.
Thank God for Greg's stamina — maybe he'd masturbated, or gotten his rocks off somehow during the day. I bet that Greek goddess in his third period class — what was her name? Callista — had asked him for relief and he'd obliged her in the most elemental, natural way possible, perhaps even indulging her in the same Greek fashion he was doing me.
And yes, that was a Program violation if I ever saw one. Getting relief through any kind of penetration was frowned upon. I didn't mind if he had. With every drive into me I knew Greg loved me, loved me, loved me.
Aaaahh I was coming like a volcano, and I sensed he was getting closer to his own orgasm by the way he gripped my waist and pistoned into me, over and over and over. He shoved deep and hard and fast one last time and I felt his pecker pulsing, shooting hot jets into my shitty depths, pouring his fuel on the fire of my own coming until I was seeing stars.
We held on as long as we could, but all good things must come to an end, and I slowly returned to reality, my butt crapping him out. Turning around I slid down the shower wall and reached for his dick and the soap so I could wash it clean before giving its soft head an affectionate kiss. I love fondling it when it is all limp and squirmy in my hands, and as long as I'm gentle he likes it, too.
But eventually duty called and we dressed. My post-orgasmic bliss was ended by a distress call from Missy. She was — upset doesn't quite describe it. Stressed? Concerned? She said something cryptic about her mom and an elephant crapping in her living room, which made no sense. That she needed me was all I got out of it.
Her house being within easy walking distance I left messages with both Mom and Maria that I was headed there and that I'd get a ride home from Missy's or call if I needed to be picked up. I loved my new home, but this living across town from my BFF was a pain in the ass. It made it so hard for us to get together outside of school since neither of us had a license yet, let alone a car.
As far as I knew the Pisstor and his demons were still on the loose since there'd been nothing but silence from Maria. However, I wasn't oblivious to the suspiciously anonymous series of vehicles lurking within sight of my house since Tuesday. Either she'd gotten her bosses to put a watch on me or I was in deeper shit than ever. Even though I didn't hear back from her I was careful to keep her informed on where I was.
Maybe it was the lingering remnants of my cold, or my lust-addled wits, but I should have tried harder to interpret Missy's message. Since we'd been three years old she and I'd had an open-door policy, so I just waltzed up her front walk and in the door.
The moment I walked into Mrs. Wilson's very familiar, proper, oh-so-perfectly furnished living room I found myself waist-deep in metaphorical elephant dung. The elephant crapping up the carpet, or rather sofa, was Pisstor Paul himself, in his usual ministerial garb of black slacks, a shirt so white it matched his polished smile. No Cadillac cufflinks, at least — the cuffs of his sleeves were folded back to reveal his hairy wrists.
Nope. Change that elephant metaphor. Given Maria's warning I realized I'd just walked into a tiger's cage and the big cat was grinning at me like I was a pork chop.
Never trust anyone who's always smiling.
My instinct for self-preservation kicked in and I greeted Mrs. Wilson politely, managed a respectful nod to Pastor Paul and a friendly wave and self-conscious "hi" to Missy, thinking fast.
"Missy, do you have some juice or something? I just finished swimming practice and my blood sugar wouldn't power an ant."
I could have found her fridge blindfolded, but bless Missy, without a bobble she picked up on that we needed some private face-time. "Sure, come on in the kitchen, I'll find you something."
By the time we were huddling with our heads in the refrigerator I'd discarded my first panicked thought that she'd spilled any beans to her Mom. For one thing Missy still had no idea of the explosives on the disk, and if she'd said anything Mrs. Wilson's first reaction would have been to call Pisstor Paul to ask if it were true. In that case he'd probably have been on his way to Rio.
So presumably he still didn't know what we had on him and his accomplices. Dammit, what was taking Maria and company so long? They'd had the goods on him since Sunday, when were the cops going to put this bunch out of circulation?
"What's he doing here?"
"Mom and I got into an argument over me going to church again. She asked him to come over and convince me all is wonderful in pervert land and I've been getting it in stereo from them since, which is why I called you. Sorry.
"Now where's that juice?" she added louder for the benefit of the audience in the living room.
"I'm glad you did."
That got me a tumbler of juice along with a smile and a thanks.
Okay, so I lied, but she needed support. While I chugged down juice my brain was juggling the possibilities. I got so deep into worrying about what he knew, what I knew, what he thought I knew, what I thought he knew about what I knew, that my brain went into overload.
I thought the cops had him under surveillance. If they did where was Maria? If they had tailed him was I again at ground zero of another SWAT raid? To say that the situation was unstable was putting it mildly. I needed backup, bad!
I put the empty tumbler on the counter. "I need to use the powder room. Make excuses for me."
Missy looked confused, but didn't bat an eye otherwise. Fortunately the facility was just off the kitchen, so I slipped in without being seen from the living room and I had to risk firing up my cell phone. This time Maria answered.
"Maria, where are you?"
"At the church. There was a big meeting here. We've busted 'em, except Paul, who didn't show for some reason."
"He didn't show because he's sitting right here in Missy's living room!"
"Shit! We're on the way."
"Wait!" I had visions of a SWAT team crashing through the doors, bullets flying, and broke out in a cold sweat. "Don't come in guns blazing. Everything's calm at the moment. I'll unlock the back door, and keep him distracted so maybe you can get him without a fight."
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