textfiles/sex/EROTICA/M/marjorie.txt

"Marjorie"
By Dirty Dawg                                

Semi-Standard Disclaimer: As usual, this is your 'vanilla' type of 
male/female sex/love story here. This is NOT a story about a nympho 
teenage cheerleader naked skydiver having midair sex with her coach 
before landing in a cucumber patch guarded by a horny St. Bernard.
Sorry. As usual, this is material of an explicit, adult nature, and
should only be viewed or posessed by adults of legal age in whatever
villiage, town, city, community, state, or country you happen to
harken from. Failure to safeguard this material in an appropriate
manner might result dire consequences. You have been warned.

Now that THAT's out of the way, let's get on with the story.

WARNING: This story does contain some (non-sexual) violence. If this were 
a movie, it'd be rated "R".

As always, comments, questions, suggestions, flamage and so on can be
directed to drambo@cloud9.net, or drambo@primenet.com


-1-

	The phone call was not completely unexpected, but it did 
surprise Dan a little. The voice on the other end was instantly 
familiar, bringing with it a rush of memories and emotions and 
feelings.
	"Dan?" Still soft, sweet and honeyed with a layer of Deep 
South. A voice promising so many distant dreams and unfulfilled 
yearnings. He could immediately picture her on the other end: 
Sitting on that ridiculous white couch in her living room, one leg 
curled under her, twisting the phone cord as she talked.
	"Marjorie." He tried not to let her hear the sigh, and 
instead asked the inevitable: "How's tricks, kiddo?"
	"Not too good, Dan." As expected. He only heard from her 
when things were going poorly. What this time? Did she need a 
loan? A traffic ticket fixed? One of her neighbors giving her 
troubles? Something that a flash of a cop's shield in their faces 
usually cleared up?
	"What's wrong?" Even in his cynicism Dan was concerned. She 
still had the old pull on him, the same effect.
	"It's my boyfriend..." she started, and Dan felt the sinking 
feeling begin. She probably wanted Dan to fix a traffic ticket or 
something.
	"...actually," she continued,"...he's my ex-boyfriend. Only 
he doesn't think so. I've told him we're through, Dan, and he just 
doesn't listen. He's shown up here a few times, drunk and angry. 
He's broken a couple of things around the apartment in a drunken 
rage, and..." She trailed off, obviously reluctant to finish.
	"What, Marjorie?" Dan gently prodded.
	"Well, the last time he was over here, two nights ago, he 
was really ripped. I mean, he was blotto. He pounded on the door 
until I let him in, and then he began ranting and raving, waving 
his arms around, threatening me physically, telling me that I was 
a no-good bitch and that he would teach me a lesson. When I asked 
him to leave, he...he hit me. Across the face. With his fist, Dan, 
not his hand. I've got this awful bruise on my cheek and I'm just 
so scared Dan, I'm terrified of him!" The last sentence had come 
out all in a rush, and Dan had a palpable sense of her fear.
	"Have you called the police? I mean, besides me."
	"No."
	"Have you contacted an attorney? Tried to get a TRO?"
	"What's a TRO? And no, I haven't called a lawyer...yet."
	"A TRO is a Temporary Restraining Order. Basically it's a 
court document that says that this boyfriend of yours can no 
longer approach you, talk to you, come over to your apartment, 
anything. No contact at all. If he does, then he's in violation of 
the order, and can be arrested and prosecuted. But I only 
recommend that as the first step. Most assholes like this don't 
even blink at a TRO. They just think that the court is meddling in 
their business, and just ignore it."
	"What can I do?" Marjorie's question was almost a wail.
	"Well, the first thing to do is change your phone to a non-
listed number. Secondly, move. Find a new apartment in a new part 
of town. You tell me when you're moving, and I'll make sure lover 
boy is tied up with something else, maybe a traffic stop or a drug 
search or something. That way, if he's watching your apartment-"
	"You think he's watching me?"
	"Well, it fits the profile. Let me tell you something about 
this guy; you tell me if I'm right. He was incredibly possessive 
when you first started dating, jealous to the point of violence 
against any guy who looked at you. At first you found this kind of 
flattering, but then his attempts at controlling you and your 
actions become oppressive and smothering. When you broke up with 
him the first time, he laughed at you, then got angry, then got 
contrite. Promised to change, to do anything you wanted if only 
you'd take him back. He told you how much you meant to him, how 
much he wanted to be with you, all that stuff. So you took him 
back. He behaved himself for a few weeks, and then something set 
him off again. You smiled at some guy at dinner or in the mall or 
said some actor on television or in the movies was good looking, 
and he went off again. He went ballistic. Told you that you 
belonged to him, that you were basically his property. And when 
you broke it off this time, he went nuts. Started calling at all 
hours, either just hanging up or breathing heavy or shouting 
obscenities into the phone. Threatened you...and then finally, 
what happened last night." 
	Marjorie had been silent during Dan's entire speech. When he 
stopped talking, she was quiet for perhaps thirty seconds more. 
"Do you know Bobby?" she asked.
	"Not specifically, but I know hundreds of dirtbags just like 
him. Trust me, Marjorie. Move. And tell me where and when so I can 
take care of it."
	"Can't you just go over and have a talk with him? Flash him 
your badge or something?"
	"It's called a shield, Marjorie. And no, I can't. That would 
be an abuse of power, and I could loose my job. No, Marjorie. If 
you want me to act in an official capacity then-"
	"Please?" Her voice was plaintive and quietly beseeching. 
And Dan knew deep in his soul that he could never refuse her, 
would always do whatever she asked.
	"Very well. Give me his full name and birthdate."

				   -2-

	Dan parked the unmarked car and looked up at the address 
he'd written down. 1439 Bainbridge, Apartment 6A. Well, if this 
got back to the captain, I'll be walking a beat again in no time. 
But, Dan also knew that most guys of this type weren't smart 
enough to figure out what to do.
	As he ascended the stairs, Dan wondered for the thousandth 
time what made these guys act like they did. Why were there so 
many men that liked to slap women around, to make the live in fear 
and cower at the sound of their voices?
	Arriving at the door, Dan knocked twice, hard.
	"Who is it?"
	"POLICE!" Dan shouted. "Open the door!" There came the 
muffled sounds of shuffling from the other side of the door, and 
then the sound of a lock being turned and the chain being taken 
off. The door opened to reveal a man obviously fresh from the 
shower, hair dripping, a towel wrapped around his waist and 
gripped by one hand. He was tall, but not as tall as Dan, maybe 
six foot two, with sandy blonde hair, deep blue eyes, and a 
surfer's build and good looks. Just Marjorie's type, Dan thought.
	"What can I do for you, officer?"
	"Detective Stone, Atlanta Robbery/Homicide. May I come in?"
	"Now's not a good time, detective. I was in the shower."
	Dan stiff-armed the door open and walked in. "Go turn it 
off, then. You and I have things to talk about." The man looked at 
Dan strangely for a moment, then nodded and turned to walk down 
the hall and into the bathroom.
	In a few moments he returned, dressed in bluejeans and a 
hastily thrown-on sweatshirt. He was shoeless, and he had combed 
his hair.
	"What's this all about, Detective? I haven't murdered or 
robbed anyone lately, and I'm sure that I don't know anyone who 
has?"
	"Are you Robert James Walker?"
	"I am."
	"May I seem some identification, please?"
	Walker started to ask a question, and then thought better of 
it. He walked to a small table in the living room and opened his 
briefcase, returning with his wallet, holding it out for Dan to 
take.
	Refusing it, he said, "Please take out your driver's 
license."
	Visibly impatient, Walker complied, handing the small 
laminated card to Dan. Dan stared at it, hoping against hope that 
it was expired.
	It was, of course, not expired. Handing it back, Dan took a 
notebook from his inside jacket pocket and opened it. "What kind 
of car do you drive, Mr. Walker?"
	"A '92 Nissan 300ZX. Black. Plate is Atlanta 3JM-A34. What 
is this all about?"
	"Just a few more questions, sir, and then I'll answer any 
questions you have. Fair enough?"
	"Fair enough," Walker nodded. "Ask away."
	"Where do you work?"
	"InfoDyne. I'm a systems analyst."
	"Must make a good living," Dan offered.
	"I do all right." A look of mixed confusion and wariness had 
crept across Walker's features. "Detective, I'm not going to 
answer any more questions until you tell me what's going on."
	"Fair enough," Dan said, snapping the notebook closed and 
returning it to his jacket pocket. "The entire purpose of this 
little exercise, Bobby, is to make you understand a few things. 
First, I know who you are, where you work, and what kind of car 
you drive. I have you in my little book, see, and if I ever get 
another single complaint from Marjorie Clark about you, I will be 
back to pay you a visit. Understand?"
	Whatever Dan expected Walker's reaction to be, the 
expression of amusement was not it. "Is that what this is about? 
Detective, I assure you that Marjorie exaggerates a great deal. 
All we're having is a small lover's quarrel. Nothing to trouble 
yourself about, really-"
	Dan took a step forward, grabbing a handful of Walker's 
sweatshirt.
	"You like to beat up on women, huh? Makes you feel like a 
big man, slapping women around? All Marjorie has to do is sign a 
complaint, and I'll arrest your ass for assault so fast it'll make 
your head spin. Maybe I'll let you pick on someone your own size, 
someone a little like...me."
	"I'm not going to take a swing at you, Detective. I don't 
want to be arrested for assaulting an officer or obstructing 
justice or something like that. Whatever Marjorie told you is just 
simply not true. It's true, we're having problems right now, but 
all couples go through this kind of thing-"
	"Perhaps I'm not making myself clear, asshole. You and 
Marjorie are no longer a couple, no longer together. I am an old 
friend of Marjorie's and if she tells me you've even sent her a 
postcard, I'm going to come back and-"
	"What?" Walker interrupted, an insolent little smile on his 
face. "What are you going to do? Huh? Come back here and shoot me? 
Beat the shit out of me? I got two words for you, Detective. 
Rodney King. As of now, I'm filing assault charges against you, 
the Atlanta Police Department and the City of Atlanta. If you ever 
come near me again, I'll have your badge."
	Slowly, Dan released Walker's shirt, then made a smoothing 
motion with his hand. "You do what you feel you have to, asshole. 
My warning still stands. You touch, call, or make any effort to 
contact Marjorie Clark, and I will make your life a living hell."
	"Get out, Detective. You will be hearing from my attorney." 
Walker still had that insolent little smile on his face, and Dan 
ached to slap it off his puss. He turned and left the apartment.

				     -3-

	"Hello?"
	"Marjorie, it's me. I talked to Walker, but I gotta warn you 
I don't think it did any good. I want you to come down here and 
sign a statement that he physically abused you. Then I can arrest 
him for assault."
	"I'd rather not do that, Dan. There would be a trial, and 
then all sorts of ugly things will come out."
	Suddenly, Dan was wary. "Things? What kinds of ugly things, 
Marjorie? What aren't you telling me?"
	There was a long pause. "I'd rather not go into it right-"
	"You listen to me, Marjorie Alice Clark. I put my fucking 
job on the line for you today. If there's something going on here, 
I have a right to know about it, not only as your friend, but as 
the guy who risked his ASS for you! Am I making myself clear?" The 
intensity of Dan's sudden fury stunned Marjorie into silence.
	"Yes, it's clear. But not over the phone. Come over, and 
I'll cook you dinner tonight, kay? Then I'll tell you everything."
	"Fine," Dan said and hung up.

			      * * * * * * * * * *

	Marjorie answered the door wearing jeans and a t-shirt, her 
long, curly blonde hair in a ponytail. Dan knew that Marjorie knew 
that he loved her when she looked this way. She had the elfin good 
looks of the girl next door, and a simmering, seething sensuality 
that made men turn their heads, and then bang them against brick 
walls. Deep, ocean blue eyes were all but hidden behind her 
glasses, which only served to make her beauty a little more 
obvious, despite her attempts to downplay it.
	Her breasts were firm and bouncy, and Dan wondered if she 
was wearing a bra under the shirt. He tried to force that and all 
thoughts concerning Marjorie's sexuality and his attraction to her 
from his mind...and failed miserably. His attraction to her was 
chemical, spiritual...there was no denying or escaping it.
	"Hi," she said. "Come on in!" He followed her down the short 
hall leading away from her door into the living room. The kitchen 
branched off to the left, and another short hall led to the only 
bedroom and bathroom to the right. The ludicrous white couch still 
dominated the living room, but she had added a glass-topped coffee 
table and a leather wing chair since the last time Dan'd been 
there, almost six months before. An expensive-looking stereo was 
housed in a glass-fronted cabinet, and soft jazz filled the small 
apartment. The scent of a dinner moments away from completion 
wafted from the kitchen, and Dan felt his stomach rumbling. The 
last thing he'd eaten was a sugar doughnut that morning.
	"What's for dinner?" he asked.
	"Lasagna, garlic bread, salad...a little wine...sound good?"
	"Sounds great!"
	"It'll only be a minute," she said, vanishing into the 
kitchen. Dan followed her and opened the fridge, looking for a 
beer. Finding a six-pack, he removed one and twisted the cap off, 
sending it flying into the garbage can with a snap of his fingers.
	"Two points," Marjorie said, watching it drop into the 
basket. Dan silently watched her as she prepared the meal, tossing 
the salad with two wooden forks, setting the bread under the 
broiler for a few moments, moving around the kitchen with the 
familiar motions of a practiced cook. From time to time she would 
sip at Dan's beer, always without asking, always handing it back 
silently.
	And that's the way it is with us, Dan thought. Six months 
apart, and we slip back into these personal rhythms like I left 
this morning to go to work. I can sense her body language like a 
trained interpreter, and we fit together so well...the comfortable 
silence; so many couples felt like they had to fill each moment 
with conversation, with words and sentences and paragraphs...fill 
the holes with sound to convince themselves that they weren't 
alone.
	Studying her motions as she moved around the kitchen, Dan 
was surprised at how arousing just watching her move was. Marjorie 
was a very sexual, very sensuous person, even if she pretended not 
to know it. Just watching her made Dan feel good.
	"All done," she said, handing the salad bowl to Dan. "Put 
this on the table, will you?" Dan carried it into the tiny dining 
room and set it on the table, returning to the kitchen only to 
have Marjorie hand him a breadbasket filled with steaming slices 
of French bread liberally doused with a butter and garlic mixture. 
After setting those down, Dan turned to see Marjorie walking in 
from the kitchen holding a glass pan filled to the brim with warm, 
gooey lasagna.
	He sat down at one and, and she at the other, and they ate 
for a few moments in silence, catching each other's eyes from time 
to time. For the meal, Marjorie had poured herself a glass of red 
wine. As she tipped the long-stemmed glass back to take a sip, 
their eyes locked once again, and Dan felt a tugging in his chest. 
He felt the same tugging every time he saw someone kiss a tall, 
curly-haired blonde on television or in the movies. It was a 
gnawing sensation, and he never acknowledged it or tried to do 
anything about it.
	"So tell me," he finally said. "I need to know everything if 
I'm going to be able to help you. And I mean everything, Marjorie. 
We've known each other for a lot of years, and I need you to be 
completely honest with me."
	"Well," she said. "It's kind of embarrassing. It's hard for 
me to talk about, even though I know it's basically over." 
Marjorie put the glass down on the table with a soft 'clink', 
folded her hands and placed them on the edge of the table and 
began to speak:
	"Bobby and I met...well, that's not important. What is 
important is that there was this instant spark between us, and 
instant physical attraction. We went home together that night 
and...slept together. I know what that makes me sound like, but 
Dan, it was something that neither of us could deny, even if we 
wanted to. And I'm not trying to cause you pain, but he 
was...wonderful. He was the single best lover I've ever had. He 
was so gentle, so knowing...so understanding. At first. We started 
seeing a lot of each other, and we even talked about moving in 
together." 
	At the mention of this, Dan's stomach lurched. He put his 
fork down, the lasagna forgotten as he leaned forward to listen.
	"Then things got kinky. Well, maybe not kinky, but 
definitely a little strange. He started asking me to do things, 
things that I had never done before, never even thought of doing 
before."
	"Like what?" Dan interrupted, not sure that he wanted to 
know, but curious all the same.
	"Well, things like not wearing any underwear underneath a 
dress when we went out so that he could...touch me. Things like 
that. Things like going separately to a singles bar, letting him 
watch me dance with other men, watching me let them feel me up, 
and then having him step in and whisk me away to his car. We'd 
drive home and have furious, passionate sex until all hours of the 
day and night. And then things got a little too intense for me. He 
wanted me to sleep with another man while he watched. He wanted to 
take nude pictures of me, wanted to make a videotape of us making 
love and then send it into one of those places that exchanges 
amateur porn tapes. Things like that."
	"Really," was all Dan could muster.
	"Then it got totally out of hand. He wanted me to work at a 
strip club on the weekends, wanted me to pretend like I was a 
prostitute or something like that in a bar. See if I could get a 
man to offer me money for sex; then he, in his plan, would step in 
and ID himself as a cop and 'arrest' me for prostitution. Strange 
things like that. And the sex got more violent, more controlling. 
He demanded that I do certain...things to him, and when I asked 
for some attention, some tenderness, he would laugh at me and call 
me names. Dirty, horrible names that made me feel low and 
degraded. He made me perform oral sex on him while he was driving 
the car, holding my face in his crotch by the hair while he 
screamed down the highway. I was humiliated, seeing that all the 
truckers knew what was going on; they'd pass us on the highway, 
honking their horns and then dropping back.
	"He'd raise my skirt and leave my rear end exposed, with his 
fingers inside my...inside me while the truckers stared and honked 
and hooted and made rude noises and comments as they passed. He 
said that it got him off, that it excited him to know that all 
those men, the men in the bars and on the dance floor that I let 
touch me for his pleasure, all those men...he said that it excited 
him to know they all wanted me, all wanted to be with me and to 
touch me and to...fuck me. That's the word he used, 'fuck.'"
	Dan thoughtfully stroked his chin. It sounded like Marjorie 
had taken a walk on the other side of the street, and decided that 
the grass wasn't greener, and was now regretting it.
	"The final straw was when he wanted to tie me up and let all 
his friends have sex with me. He begged and pleaded and promised 
me the world if only I'd let him do this to me, only let his 
friends in between my legs, one after the other, again and again, 
until they would all be satisfied.
	"And that," Marjorie said, "was it. I'd had it. I told him 
in no uncertain terms that I didn't want to be a part of his life 
anymore. I told him that I was breaking up with him, that I didn't 
want to be his slut.
	"And then, as you said this afternoon, he changed his 
tactics. He tried to reconcile. Promised that he would never ask 
those things of me again, that he only wanted to experiment. That 
I was all that was important to him, that he wanted to be with me 
forever, for the rest of our lives. 
	"I took a chance," she said sadly. "I believed in him, and I 
decided to give it another try. For about three weeks, everything 
was fine. We had conventional, if passionless sex, for a few 
weeks. Then things started to get weird again. He started being 
more forceful in bed, more demanding. Gone was the sensitive man 
I'd wanted, gone was his warmth and compassion when we were making 
love. Replaced by a rude, crude, aggressive asshole that was only 
concerned with his own pleasure.
	"And then the absolute final straw. We were making love in 
my bed when a friend of his walked into the bedroom. Bobby had 
left the door unlocked and told him to 'surprise' us, I guess. His 
friend started to get undressed while I watched in horror. Bobby 
kept trying to get me to sleep with the both of them.
	"I started screaming, shouting, kicking, anything to get 
Bobby and his friend out of my bedroom and out of my apartment. 
They went, but Bobby stopped at the bedroom door and told me that 
he'd make me pay for embarrassing him like that, making him look 
bad in front of his friend.
	"The next day the threatening phone calls started. Shortly 
after that he started showing up drunk, shouting and screaming, 
pounding on the door at all hours of the day and night. The last 
time I let him in, three days ago, he did...this." She indicated 
the bruise on her face, covered almost completely by heavy makeup. 
Normally, Dan didn't like her to wear a lot of makeup, but he 
thought it better in this instance. If he got a good look at the 
bruise, Dan knew he might do something to Bobby he would later 
regret.
	"Well, you did the right thing. You knew that you were in 
over your head, and you called...me. I talked with him, as I told 
you, but he's a lot smarter than I thought."
	"Not smarter than you, though," Marjorie teased. "At least, 
I hope!"
	"No," Dan said, smiling. "There aren't many people smarter 
than me."
	Marjorie laughed.
	"Anyway," Dan continued. "I'm serious about your moving. If 
he knows where you live..."
	"But I like it here," Marjorie whined.
	"Listen to me. The justice system is not currently able to 
handle problems of this nature. We can't do anything to him, until 
he does something to you! The police, me included, aren't your 
private storm troopers! We can't go off half-cocked every time you 
get your pretty little tit in a wringer!"
	"Do you really think they're pretty?" Marjorie asked 
coequettishly.
	"I'm serious, Marjorie. Being cute isn't going to help 
matters. Bobby has already shown that he has a violent tendency. 
He's already hit you. If he decides to come in here and do 
something worse...there's nothing you or I could do, until after 
the fact. If that's what you want, then I'll be happy to prosecute 
him for assault, or rape...or worse. Perhaps I'll arrest him for 
your murder, Marjorie. Is that what you want?"
	Dan saw that his words had the desired effect. The color had 
drained from Marjorie's face as he spoke.
	"Can't you do anything else?"
	"Your options are these: 1) Sign a complaint against him. 
I'll arrest him for assault, and he'll probably get probation. 
When I ran his record through the computer, he has no other 
arrests, just a few tickets here and there. He got a citation for 
drunken fighting a few years ago. He might get counseling. 2) 
Move. If he doesn't know where you are, he can't do anything to 
you. And since you basically work out of your house, once you 
move, it will basically be over. Or, thirdly, you can do nothing. 
And he might show up again, drunk and angry. And then, there's no 
predicting what he might do. No predicting at all, Marjorie."
	"Oh, very well. Here's what I'll do. I'll come down the day 
after tomorrow and sign a complaint. Tomorrow I've got some work I 
have to get finished, and if the police department is like every 
other bureaucracy, it will probably take all day to take my 
statement and swear out a complaint."
	"Swear out a...have you been watching LA Law again?" Dan 
teased, glad that Marjorie would be pressing charges.
	"Very funny. But I mean this, Dan. I won't be moving unless 
it's the only other opportunity. Do you understand me?"
	"It's your choice," Dan said. I just hope it's the right 
one, he added silently.
	That taken care of, the couple returned to the meal, which 
had grown lukewarm while Marjorie had been talking and Dan had 
been listening. They ate in silence, each contemplating their 
private thoughts.
	When they were done, Dan helped Marjorie clear the table, 
and then do the dishes and clean the kitchen. They retired to the 
living room, she with a glass of wine, Dan with a beer, and 
relaxed on the couch, separated by the width of a single cushion.
	They listened to the stereo, which had since changed CD's 
and was now playing some old Motown tunes. After a few moments, 
Marjorie swung her legs around until her feet were resting in 
Dan's laps.
	"Rub my feet, please," she asked, "it's been a hell of a 
day."
	Dan removed her shoes and began rubbing her feet. Never 
having been a foot man, Dan was content to idly rub while his mind 
ran rampant with fantasies of rubbing other parts of Marjorie's 
body. He was in the middle of a rather involved scenario involving 
Marjorie and some hot massage oils when he realized she had 
spoken.
	"Excuse me," he said. "I was thinking. What did you say?"
	"I said, 'Penny for your thoughts.' You had the strangest 
expression on your face. You looked like a kid in a candy store."
	A slight blush of embarrassment began to creep up Dan's 
neck. "Sorry, I was just having a mild sexual fantasy."
	"The hot oils one again?" she asked. "We'll have to do that 
sometime."
	Abruptly Dan stopped rubbing her feet. "That's not funny, 
Marjorie."
	"What?"
	"It's all right when we tease each other back and forth. You 
know I'm attracted to you; I've made no secret of that over the 
years. But you've told me and shown me in more ways than one that 
you have no desire for a more... personal relationship. Comments 
like that just serve to remind me of that fact, a fact that I 
still, unfortunately, find painful." Dan was proud of himself. For 
the first two years of the relationship, he'd been unable to stand 
up for his own feelings, and had to settle for the little 
'teasers' that Marjorie occasionally tossed his way.
	"Keep rubbing," Marjorie complained. After a moment, Dan 
returned to her feet, stroking her instep softly.
	"I was serious, Dan," Marjorie said after a moment. "I know 
that I've always told you that I didn't want to get...involved. 
But this business with Bobby has been making me think a lot 
lately."
	Dan felt his heart accelerate.
	Continuing, Marjorie said, "Mostly I've been thinking about 
what I look for in a guy. Or, more to the point, the differences 
in what I have been looking for, and what I feel I should be 
looking for.
	"In the past, I've always wanted a rich, good-looking sexual 
gymnast. I mean, what girl wouldn't? But most of the guys that I 
meet that fit that description are also self-centered, egotistical 
assholes. In the middle of this mess, I asked myself, 'Where have 
all the nice guys gone?' And then it hit me. I've had a nice guy 
in my life for six years, always patiently waiting for me to come 
to my senses and realize it.
	"Well, Dan, I've finally realized it." Marjorie withdrew her 
feet from Dan's lap and scooted across the cushion separating 
them. She reached a hand out and gently traced the outline of his 
face with her fingers, stopping to run her forefinger across his 
lips.
	Dan sat immobile, afraid to move, afraid to do anything that 
might break the spell. Marjorie's face slowly approached his, and 
he saw her lips open slightly a moment before she pressed her 
mouth against his.
	Then, finally, gloriously, he was kissing her, tasting her 
for the first time, reveling in the feeling of her warmth, the 
taste of her, the scent of her. His hands automatically went 
around her back, bringing her closer to him as he explored her 
mouth with his tongue.
	The heat and the passion built until Dan could feel his need 
pumping and surging inside him, eager to break free of its 
confinement and burst forth into the room.
	Marjorie's breath was in his lungs, in his heart, when she 
suddenly pulled away and walked out of the living room and down 
the short hall into the bedroom. She hadn't told him to follow 
her, and Dan was taking no chances. Too many mixed signals over 
the years had taught him to let Marjorie take the lead; when she 
wanted him, if she wanted him to follow her into the bedroom, she 
would have to tell him.
	Dan was surprised a moment later when he heard the shower 
start. She might expect him to join her in the shower, help her 
wash the dirt and grime of a day off her body, help make her clean 
for what was to follow.
	Considering his options, Dan thought that if this was, 
finally, going to happen, then discretion was the better part of 
valor. Allow this most perfect night, for him, end as it already 
had, with a single soul-burning kiss that was branded into his 
memory forever. Even if he never touched her again, Dan knew his 
remembrance of kissing Marjorie on the couch that night would be 
replayed in his mind again and again.
	He sat there, waiting to see what would happen next. After 
fifteen minutes, Marjorie appeared in the living room again, her 
wet hair plastered against her scalp, wearing nothing but a 
smile...and a bath towel wrapped around her torso, hiding 
everything and promising nothing.
	"I'm sorry," she started, and Dan felt the familiar lurch in 
his gut again, the same feeling he had every time Marjorie got her 
signals confused. She was going to give him the Best Friend speech 
again, the
one that she used whenever Dan's attentions grew overeager or over 
attentive.
	"I'm sorry," she said, "for starting something I don't want 
to finish...tonight. I do want to continue this Dan, but I want to 
take it slow."
	Slow! he thought. You can't GET much slower than six goddamn 
years! But, he reminded himself, the six years of feelings were 
all on his part, none except friendship on hers. This was new for 
her, and although Dan had known the moment he'd laid eyes on her 
that she was the woman for him, he knew Marjorie was still 
grappling with these newfound intense emotions. 
	"That's Ok," he said softly. "I don't want to spoil 
anything, especially what just happened."
	"And what," she asked softly in reply, "did just happen?"
	"The most special night of my life," Dan said honestly. "A 
memory, that even if unconsummated in the future, I will carry 
with me for the rest of my life as one of my most treasured 
moments. I will always remember tonight as the first time I ever 
kissed you. I only wish there was a clock around here somewhere so 
I could even add the time to my memory."
	She smiled as his effortless romanticism, and plopped her 
wet body into his lap. "When this Bobby mess is over," she said, 
running her fingers through his hair, "we can talk. And I mean 
really talk, as a man and a woman should. That's the one thing 
we've always had between us, Dan, is the ability to truly 
communicate. I know I've been a bitch to you in the past, but I 
want to make it up to you, fella. I want to see what we can be 
like together, as a couple, as a man and a woman."
	Dan kissed her softly on the forehead and heaved her body 
off of his without effort and stood. "Well, I'll see you at the 
station day after tomorrow. Call first, so if I'm on a case and 
can break away, I can take your report. I'll walk the paperwork 
through personally."
	She smiled and walked with him to the front door. Standing 
on the porch, getting ready to take the short flight down to the 
front walk, Dan heard Marjorie call his name. He glanced over his 
shoulder and the site shocked him so much he stopped in mid-
stride, looking like a comical cartoon character frozen in time.
	Marjorie was holding the towel she had been wearing a moment 
ago, with a secret, elegant smile on her face, her weight placed 
carefully on one leg to tilt her hips seductively as she slowly 
shut the door.
	The kiss had been one precious memory; now Dan had a 
companion image to go with that kiss, his first view of Marjorie's 
nude body. Her breasts had sat high on her chest, seemingly 
pneumatic in design. Her waist gently flared to wonderful hips, 
and Dan had caught just a hint of the dark hair between her 
thighs. 
	Well, he thought as he got into his car and drove home, what 
do you know.
	She's not a natural blonde.

					-4-

	The next night, Dan had come home from a long day. A body 
had turned up in a warehouse, the death having all the markings of 
a mob hit. The mob wasn't big in Atlanta, but they were forceful 
in establishing territory and discipline. Dan had no hope of 
catching the triggerman; he was probably already on a flight back 
to wherever he came from. Never use local talent. Rule #1 for a 
professional hit.
	He'd walked in the door, opened the fridge for a beer, taken 
his Ruger P-85 9mm pistol off of his hip and slid it onto the top 
of the fridge when the phone rang. Hooking it with two fingers, he 
raised the receiver to his ear.
	"Hello?"
	"Dan! Come quickly! He's at the door, and he's going to kill 
me!" The phone went dead in his ear, and Dan sprang into action. 
He grabbed his gun again, sheathed in a paddle-holster*, and 
slipped it onto his right hip again. The beer, forgotten, sat on 
the counter gently spouting foam from its neck as Dan raced out of 
the apartment.
	En-route, he reached under the seat of his late-model 
Pathfinder and retrieved the revolving red bubble-light, slapping 
it on the roof at the same time he hit the foot switch for the 
siren. Traffic parted for him as he sped the three miles to 
Marjorie's apartment. In the last half-mile, he decided that 
playtime was over. Reaching into the glove compartment, Dan 
grabbed the radio handset and raised it to his ears.
	"2201 to Central, K." he said.
	"Central, go ahead 2201."
	"145 in Progress, 887 Spring Creek Lane. Plainclothes 
officer on scene. Request backup."
	"Central, 2201, K."
	"Proceed, Central."
	"We've got no cars in the immediate vicinity. Be advised 
that your nearest backup is approximately ten minutes away from 
Metro West. Copy, 2201?"
	"Copy, Central. Also, please roll an ambulance to this 
location if you don't hear back from me in ten minutes."
	"Copy, 2201. Central out."
	Dan dropped the microphone on the seat beside him and 
pressed the accelerator to the floor with one foot, working the 
siren with the other.

			       * * * * * * * * * *

	Dan screeched the Pathfinder to a stop and jumped out of the 
door, grabbing a portable radio in the process. Jamming the radio 
into his back pocket, he ascended the six stairs leading to 
Marjorie's front door in a single bound. The door was slightly 
ajar, and Dan could see marks where Bobby had kicked it in.
	Sliding up against the frame, Dan drew his pistol with his 
right hand and slowly slid the door open with his left. He could 
hear the argument in the living room clearly.
	"Get out!" Marjorie screamed. "I mean it, get out right now-
" Her voice was cut short by the sound of an open hand meeting 
flesh. The next sound was a soft moan, and then a body crumpling 
to the carpet. The entire symphony of violence cut like a knife 
through Dan's soul.
	He stepped into the apartment and saw nothing. They were 
over by the stereo, out of sight from the foyer. Dan could go 
through the kitchen and approach from the left, or down the hall 
and into the living room, approaching from the right. Being a 
right-handed shooter, Dan made his decision and went to the right, 
the Ruger held in two stiff hands in front of him, leading the way 
like a magic wand.
	Three steps down the hall and he had the entire situation. 
Marjorie was on the floor, holding one hand to her left cheek, 
crying as she looked up at Bobby Walker standing above her. And 
then Dan's blood ran cold. Bobby was holding a gun in his left 
hand, a 2-inch snubby, either a .38 special or a .357 Magnum.
	"Call the cops on me, will you? I'll teach your ass a 
fucking lesson you won't soon forget, bitch!"
	His hand slowly raised the gun so that Marjorie could see 
it. She gasped, and then caught sight of Dan. At that exact 
moment, the radio in Dan's pocket screeched.
	"Central to 2201, K."
	Ignoring it, Dan screamed, "POLICE! DROP IT!" Walker, having 
spun around at the sound of the radio, smiled an evil shark's grin 
at Dan and leveled the gun at Marjorie's head.
	"You drop it, cop, or the fucking bitch gets a third eye!"
	"DROP IT!" Dan repeated, taking another step, placing him 
fully in the living room. A thousand thoughts went through his 
mind at that instant. Marjorie was safely out of the line of fire. 
The wall behind Walker bordered the outside wall; there was an 
empty field behind Marjorie's apartment, for perhaps three hundred 
yards. If the shot missed, and passed through the wall, it would 
be slowed enough not to do much damage. Unless someone was walking 
outside the building right now.
	"2201, Central, K." The radio repeated.
	"TURN THAT FUCKING THING OFF," Walker screamed. "RIGHT NOW!"
	Dan took his left hand off his gun and slowly reached behind 
himself to retrieve the radio. He raised it to his lips. "Central, 
2201. Man with a gun at this address. This is now a 138 hostage 
situation. I need SWAT and a negotiator, now!"
	"2201, Central, 10-4." Far off in the distance, Dan could 
hear the sounds of sirens as patrol cars raced to the scene.
	"You shouldn't have done that, cop. I don't like it when 
people FUCK with my plans!" His hand was rock steady holding the 
small revolver, and Dan knew he would have less than a microsecond 
to decide whether or not to shoot.
	All he would need would be the slightest tightening of the 
finger on his trigger. The Ruger had had a trigger job done on it 
last month, the gunsmith shaving more than two pounds off the 
pull. With less effort than it took to blink, Dan could touch the 
trigger and Walker's brains would go flying.
	Every ounce of training in his body screamed at Dan to go 
for a center mass shot, somewhere in the upper torso. His Ruger 
was loaded with Glazier safety slugs, and he knew that they were 
renowned for their one-shot-stopping power; but if in this one 
case it didn't work, then Marjorie would die. No, it had to be a 
head shot if there was to be a shot.
	Dan had been distracted by the conflicting voices in his 
head, and Walker took that moment to cock the pistol. The hammer 
was now back, and the click of the spring engaging seemed to echo 
in the small apartment's living room.
	"I mean it," he said reasonably. "Drop the gun, or I swear, 
I'll shoot her."
	The harsh bark of Dan's P-85 filled the room, and time 
froze. Later, in his testimony at the inquest, and in recounting 
the situation to his fellow cops, Dan would swear that he saw the 
bullet leave the barrel and travel the six feet to Walker, 
impacting just forward of his left ear. Walker's head jerked with 
the impact, and a moment later the air behind his head was filled 
with a fine, pink mist of brain matter, blood and vaporized bone. 
The right hemisphere of his brain separated itself from the rest 
and slapped wetly against the wall, leaving a vicious red smear as 
it slid to the carpet.
	Walker crumpled to the carpet, dead, the gun slipping from 
his hand and landing with a thump on the carpet. The revolver 
discharged, and Dan felt a stinging pain in his lower leg. With a 
start, he knew that the wet, warm sensation and coppery smell 
meant that he had been shot.
	The echo from Dan's and Walker's gunshot echoed in the 
apartment, and the smell of cordite, blood and violence filled 
Dan's nostrils. A slight ringing sensation in his ear was replaced 
with Marjorie's screams. She had blood on the front of her shirt, 
and a large blob of brain matter was in her hair. Her hands were 
at her face, her nails scratching at her cheeks as she screamed 
again and again, a high and keening wail that made Dan take the 
four shuddering steps towards her and collapse into her.
	"Help me up," he said to her. "Help me get out of here. I've 
been shot." Marjorie looped an arm across his shoulders and 
stooped, Dan and Marjorie made their way out of the living room, 
down the hall and out the front door in time to greet the first of 
the Metro West patrol cars screeching to a stop at the curb. Since 
the RMP's weren't from Dan's district, none of the first cops knew 
who, or more importantly, what, Dan was. All they saw was a bloody 
woman helping a bloody man with a gun out of an apartment where 
they had heard a "man with a gun" call coming from.
	"Freeze! Drop the gun!" the first officer screamed. Dan 
raised his hands above his head and said, "I'm a cop! Don't 
shoot!" Very slowly, he put the pistol on the front-porch railing 
and took one clumsy step back. Keeping his right hand high above 
his head, Dan slowly reached into his jacket and returned with a 
battered leather badge case, flipping it open to reveal the shield 
and ID card of an Atlanta Police Detective. "Stone, 
Robbery/Homicide," he said. Some of the cops relaxed, others 
holstered their weapons as a sergeant ascended the stairs.
	"What happened here?" he demanded.
	"Ex-boyfriend went over the top, had a gun to her head, 
hammer back. I blew his brains all over the wall."
	"Wait here, Detective. Homicide and IAD will want to talk to 
you."
	"Yes, sir," Dan said, wondering where the hell he was going 
to go with a hole in his leg. He sat down on the steps and 
gingerly lifted his pants leg, then let out a long sigh.
	It was a scratch. The bullet had winged him on the left 
shin, leaving a bloody trench about a quarter-inch deep, about 
four inches long, traversing his leg from front to back. The wound 
was pink, meaty, and slowly oozing blood. It looked like it could 
stand a stitch or two, but Dan hoped the paramedics could just 
slap a bandage on it. He hated hospitals.
	Marjorie was sitting next to Dan, hugging her knees to her 
chest, shivering, and slowly rocking back and forth. Her eyes were 
wide open and shiny, staring at the cobblestones leading up to the 
front stairs. She was moaning unintelligibly.
	Dan snaked an arm around her shoulder and she leaned into 
him, nestling her head on his chest.
	They stayed that way for a little while, until a voice 
brought Dan out of his post-shoot reverie.
	"Detective Stone?" Dan looked up into the eyes of a hard-
looking IAD officer. "We need to talk."

-5-

	Four hours later, Dan drove Marjorie from the station to his 
apartment. She had asked Dan if she could spend the night there, 
and he'd readily agreed. Her apartment was still being gone over 
by forensics, the CSU team, and the homicide and IAD detectives. 
The body had been removed while Dan was being interviewed by IAD 
at the scene, and he'd seen the mask of horror on Marjorie's face 
when the body-bag draped gurney was wheeled out and placed into 
the M.E.'s van.
	The scene interview had lasted only long enough to get the 
bare details. The longer interview, or interrogation, had taken 
place at IAD headquarters, and had lasted three hours. The IAD 
detective agreed that it would most likely be ruled a justified 
shoot, and that Dan had nothing to worry about, as long as 
forensics jibed with his account of the events in the apartment.
	Leaving the station, Marjorie was silent, and remained that 
way the entire trip to Dan's apartment, which took about ten 
minutes. She went immediately to the shower and emerged half an 
hour later, wearing only an old oxford shirt of Dan's she'd found 
in the closet. It hung past her hips to almost her knees, but one 
part of Dan's mind reacted with pleasure at the sight. He'd always 
loved women using men's clothes as sleeping attire.
	But tonight, that thought was pushed to the back of his 
head. The last thing she wanted....
	Dan had opened the couch and turned it into a bed, taking 
sheets from the linen closet and making it up. He didn't want to 
make assumptions, and he was sure that Marjorie was probably 
suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress problem, similar 
to what she might be feeling after a rape or violent assault.
	She sat down on the bed, and Dan turned to leave when she 
caught his arm in her hand.
	"Don't leave. Lie here with me a while." Dan laid down next 
to her and tried to give her the comfort of his warmth. He felt 
her breathing slow, and then quiet. Thinking she was asleep, Dan 
tried to disengage himself so he could undress and turn in 
himself.
	Marjorie clutched at the arms encircling her. "Don't go," 
she whispered. "Not yet." Dan relaxed back into the bed and drew 
her closer.
	"You saved my life tonight," she whispered. 
	"You don't have to whisper," Dan whispered, and then 
realizing he was doing to, barely managed to stifle a giggle. Each 
got the giggles watching the other try and stifle them, and before 
long the bed was jiggling with laughter. Slowly, they calmed down, 
and managed only an occasional snort or two.
	"I'm serious," Marjorie said. "You saved my life tonight. 
What do you say to the person that saved your life?"
	"A simple thanks and your firstborn should suffice," Dan 
said, trying to keep it light.
	"I mean it, Dan. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. If 
you hadn't been there, he would have...would have...killed me." 
The realization as to how close she had come to death that night 
reached Marjorie, and she clutched at Dan, her limbs shaking with 
fear. He held on to her, wishing there was a way he could feed her 
his strength.
	On his ten years on the force, Dan had shot three people, 
and this was the second that he'd killed. The first had been 
awful, but also ruled a justifiable homicide. That hadn't stopped 
the dreams and night sweats that he knew Marjorie would soon be 
getting, but they stopped after a while, after the mind performed 
its magic self-healing process. All he could do until then is 
wait.
	He felt her shift in his arms, and then her lips were 
pressed against his. For a moment, stunned, he did nothing, and 
then gently kissed her back. Marjorie's kisses grew more 
insistent, and he wasn't sure how to respond. His conscious mind 
finally gave up analyzing it, and he fell into her mouth, losing 
himself in the moist warmth of her sucking mouth and tongue. 
	They kissed for a long time, and then Marjorie began to 
explore his body, tracing the rigid muscles of his chest with her 
fingers through his shirt. She tugged at his tie, unknotted it and 
tossed it off the bed, reaching for the buttons.
	"Are you sure?" Dan asked.
	"Yes. I'm sure. I need you tonight, Dan. I need you more 
than ever. In every way possible. Make me feel warm, alive and 
loved, Dan!" Those were the words he'd been waiting to hear for 
six years. With Marjorie's help, Dan stripped himself in record 
time, and then began to explore her body.
	The buttons on her shirt came open one after the other, and 
after each one Dan took the time to kiss each piece of skin as it 
became exposed. He tasted her, smelled her, loved the feeling of 
her silky skin under his tongue. As he drew the material of her 
shirt off her breasts, it caught on one nipple and then released, 
arousing it to a point. He laved his mouth over her left breast, 
feeling the hard nubbin push against his tongue.
	When he sucked it, Marjorie gasped and grabbed his head, 
fingernails scraping his scalp as she drew his mouth closer to her 
breast. Dan's left hand gently massaged the plump weight of her 
right breast, using the material of the shirt to irritate and 
scratch lazily at her nipple. He could feel it pressing against 
the palm of his hand as he abandoned her left breast with his 
mouth and tenderly licked the underside of her left breast.
	She was gently undulating her hips against him, and he could 
feel the liquid warmth of her arousal against his thighs. She was 
warm and wet for him, and he spent the better part of half an hour 
tasting every sweet inch of her body for the first time. When he 
got to the lightly haired vee between her legs, he licked at her 
center for a few moments while teasing her erotic center with his 
thumb. Her legs flexed convulsively around his head, and he 
thrilled to Marjorie's response to his touch.
	Raising himself up on her body, he kneed her legs apart and 
slowly entered her, drowning himself in her mercurial warmth. She 
was a warm, wet, slick sheath for him and he moved above her, 
staring at her face in the light. Her eyes were open, and they 
locked with his, her ocean, sea-foam blue ones boring into his 
dark brown ones. Marjorie bit her bottom lip as a wave of pleasure 
crashed over her, and she dug her fingernails into his back. 
	Suddenly, he swung, riding with her as he ended up on his 
back, Marjorie astride. He watched the enticing jiggle of her 
breasts as she slammed herself up and down on his erect member.
	"Harder," Marjorie said. Dan began slamming his hips up to 
meet hers, feeling the pleasure tickling his scrotum, the pressure 
building for his ultimate release.
	"Almost there," Marjorie said. Dan reached his hands between 
her legs, grabbed the moist pearl there and tugged its hood 
gently. Marjorie crashed into an orgasm, her inner muscles 
gripping him tautly. Dan jerked once, twice, felt himself jerking 
and filling Marjorie with his seed. She accepted it, gratefully, 
could feel his creamy warmth filling her to the limit, until the 
combined secretions of their love seeped out between them.
	Marjorie collapsed against Dan's chest, kissing his mouth 
hungrily. "So good," she whispered, "so, so good." And then they 
disengaged and Marjorie lay atop him, pressing her full body 
weight into his.
	Playing with the hairs on his chest, Marjorie looked into 
Dan's eyes and said simply, "I love you."
	And the gates to Dan's heart opened and he felt the 
overpowering emotions he had been bottling up for six years come 
pouring out. He clutched her to him and knew that it would be all 
right. No matter what happened next, he knew that it would be all 
right.