Chapter Six: How to Confound Someone About Your Sexuality on a Shopping Trip

Chapter Seven: Ladies Who Lunch

"I want a haircut."

We're having lunch at a nice little tea room. My universe doesn't have tea rooms anymore. They were exclusive female enclaves, dedicated to refinement and dainty food. I feel like a bit of a moose let loose among gazelles. I'm surrounded by genteel looking women, sleek and fluffy variety. It's mostly twos, usually one older, one younger. Are there really this many mothers taking their daughters to lunch?

Lois seems to be well known here. Well, why not? She's a fairly big shot journalist, especially in Metropolis. Lots of the other ladies are watching us, not being too concerned about hiding it. I'm getting a lot of stares, and I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I shouldn't have given in and at least worn a blouse instead of a man's style shirt.

When we're seated, the waitress brings two menus, handing the first to Lois. As I reach for mine, Lois puts a hand on my arm. "Here, take this one." She then takes the second menu.

The waitress blushes. "I'm sorry, Miss Lane. I thought..." she gestures at me.

"Yes, it's a little confusing, but interesting," Lois replys. Well, confusing, anyway. I have no idea what they're talking about, and am too hungry to wonder for long.

I study the menu eagerly. As I'd thought, grandma food, if your grandma had a very picky, delicate digestion. Cream soups, watercress sandwiches, fruit salads... I figure I might get enough, if I eat half the stuff listed. But there's something peculiar about this thing. "Lois, my menu doesn't have any prices on it," I whisper.

"I know. Pick what you want. There isn't anything on the menu I can't afford."

"Yeah? Well, maybe I don't want you to think that I'm a cheap date." She gives me a real funny look. "Joke, joke. Okay, let me see. It's pretty hard to screw up a club sandwich, I guess. Does it come with fries?"

The waitress smiles at me. "It can. Nice to see you have a healthy appetite." Lois shoots her a semi nasty stare, for no discernable reason. After the waitress leaves with our order, I broach the subject of a haircut again.

Lois shakes her head. "Oh, c'mon, just a cheapy. I don't need styling, I just want to chop this off." I grab my fluffy ponytail and wag it. "I look like a demented Clydesdale here."

"I think you should keep it, at least for awhile. You won't be able to just change your mind if you lop it off, you know."

"It's hair," I argue. "It'll grow back."

She's adamant. "No. I think you're just trying to reinvent yourself for your new environment. You need to take a little time to adjust before you go rocketing off with radical changes."

"Lois, this isn't all that radical," I complain. "It isn't far off how I dress at home. There, the guy clothes are more feminine, and the girl clothes are more masculine. This is the closest approximation I can find to my ususal style." I rethink. "All right, you can't really call it style. Style implies that there's some thought put into it. I generally just wear what's comfortable. That was the original purpose of clothing, anyway. Comfort and protection. There's nothing very protective about a dress. Leaves you open to the world from the ground up, at the mercy of a good breeze."

"I'm sure there's more to it than that."

"Oh, sure. If you want to get into the whole cultural thing. Clothing is also a way of attracting a mate, but I'm not really concerned with that." I laugh, tugging on my button down collar derisively. "Who'd want to mate with me?"

The little waitress is back with our food. She jumps for some reason, and knocks over my water glass. It's part empty, but a thin, cold dribble lands on my leg, and I jump up, yipping. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" she babbles.

"S'okay." I try to keep my teeth from chattering.

"No, I am so sorry! Here." She grabs my napkin and begins trying to dry the wet spot.

"Um, that's all right."

"This'll just take a second." She's gripping my waistband with one hand, the other stroking the napkin down my thigh.

"SHE SAID THAT'S ENOUGH." Lois doesn't yell, but when she says that... well, it's in all capitals, and her voice is colder than the water ever thought about being. The waitress mops up the spilled water and leaves, very pink. I watch her go, puzzled. Why on earth did I have a sudden mental flash of Superman just now?

"No haircut," Lois says firmly. "Not now."

I start munching my french fries, snapping at them sulkily. "Yes, mother."

"And don't pout."

"Huhn." I pour ketchup on my plate and draw patterns in it with a french fry before I nibble the end off it.

"Scribe..."

I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms, and make my voice singsongy, "Whaaa-at?"

"You're a brat, you know that?"

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but labels just make me more tacky."

"Look, we'll go out tonight, okay? Will that make you happy?"

I consider. "Yeah." I perk up and begin eating in earnest. I notice a young woman at the next table smiling at me in what looks like a conspiratorial way. Her older companion is shaking her head with a rueful grin at Lois. The look she's giving her is sort of Kids! What's the matter with kids today? I'm beginning to realize that no matter how closely it resembled my own world, there's a lot of subtleties I'm probably missing. It's a good thing I have Lois around to keep me from doing anything that might land me in a rubber room or jail cell.

The next stop is the Daily Planet. Big thing. Must be on the level of The New York Times, or the Washington Post, or one of those other big a... large urban newspapers. Lois takes me right up to the managing editor's office. The name on the frosted glass door is Perry White.

He's a little more rugged than the comic books have led me to believe, sort of like Brian Dennehe. I shake hands enthusiastically. I really respect anyone who can hold down a job like this. He gives my outfit a puzzled look, glancing at Lois for an explanation. She shrugs. "Superman has told me about your problem. I'm willing to give you a job under two conditions. One: you actually work. You can start out as office help, running errands till we find out where you fit in."

"Hunky dorey." I'm glad to have a place to use my store of antique expressions. No one around here ever lifts an eyebrow. "What else?"

"You let us do a series of articles about you, and your life here. Miss Lane and Clark Kent can collaborate on it."

I frown. "Oh, c'mon. Who's gonna be interested in reading about me?"

Perry looks at Lois, and she says, "She really believes that."

"Miss Scribe, you're from another dimension."

"Well, there is that. But it's not like we have magic, or dragons, or space travel... Wait, we do have that. It's just that it's expensive, and it sucks. If you honestly think it won't bore you readers stiff, go for it. But it might be more exciting to have extra articles on, say, bake sales."

I'm introduced around the staff room next. Look, I guess I shouldn't use too many pop culture references, for literature's sake, since they'll date. But what the hell? I don't expect this to be high school required reading forty years from now. Jimmy Olsen looks like a red headed Ewan McGregor. A hell of a lot cuter than the comic books, and he doesn't have nearly that squeaky clean of an aura. In fact, he looks like a cheeky devil.

Then there's Clark Kent, AKA Youknowwho. I'm introduced by Lois, who gives no indication that she'd pinched his red and blue clad butt last night. He shakes hands politely, like he's never tried to stroke my tonsils with his tongue. I find it all a bit surreal. I feel like saying, "For God's sake, people, it's a suit, glasses and combed back hair! It ain't like he's wearing foam latex appliances." But I go along with it. Maybe in this universe glasses cause vision problems in everyone but the wearer. Outing his secret identity could have real consequences for him, so I do the "I'm so proud to meet you" bit.

I have a quick typing test to see what I'm capable of handling. Sitting down to the old upright is a blast of deja vu all its own. I learned on an old Royal, and I always kind of miss the machine gun rattle. The hushed patter of fingers on a keyboard just isn't the same. Of course there are drawbacks. No backspace erase, no delete. I'm going to have to once again struggle with carbon copies and correction tape. They don't even have White Out here. I think, *Damn, if I just knew the formula to that, I wouldn't have to work. I'd end up one of the richest bleeping women around.* But I'm one of those people who know that things work, but I'll be blamed if I can tell you how. My results are acceptable, and typing up copy is added to my list of future duties.

I'm excited about going out this evening. I never got out as much as I wanted at home. Mom doesn't complain, but she'll always be sitting up when I get home, no matter how late. Guilt is a wonderful restraint.

That afternoon I almost manage to do something about my hair on my own, but Lois walks in and catches me before I can start sawing through the clump I have clenched in my hand. I guess I should have locked the bathroom door. "Scribe! Give me those immediately." I sigh and hand over the scissors. "What is wrong with you? You would have butchered yourself."

"But I need to do something with this mess," I whine. Did I whine? I never whine. But I did this time. I guess I'm acting a little differently away from home.

She reachs for the hair spray. "If you'll just let me..." I put a towel over my head. "Oh, all right. Let's get it wetted and see what we can do." I drench my hair and allow her to work all the tangles out of it, till it lays over my shoulders in a heavy, damp sheath. "Let's see... braids are more controllable. We could do one on each side, then coil them up here." She cups a hand on either side of my face, looking at the effect in the mirror.

"Oh, no--not the Princess Leia look. I always thought it looked like she had two coffee rolls strapped to her head. Uh uh."

"Well, we could just let them hang in back."

"Heidi. I'm a little old for that."

"Damn, you're hard to please."

"But I'm worth it."

She clears her throat. "Okay. One braid. Starts here." She touches my temples on either side, then movs them back. "Goes back here to one tight braid."

I consider, then nod. "That'll work."

"Okay. Hold still." She works patiently, scraping and combing and sorting and twisting. At last she's done. I turn my head back and forth, studying the effect. Curly strands are already escaping, but its much more tamed than usual.

"It's okay, I guess. I'm never gonna win a beauty contest, but it's okay."

"Nonsense, Scribe. You're a pretty woman."

I look at her sharply. "Nice is nice, Lois, but don't lie to me. I'm not by any stretch of the imagination pretty. It doesn't bother me." I examine myself again. "Actually, I'm not sure what I am. I'm not ugly, either. My face is too hard to be soft, and too soft to be hard. Well," I consider a bit more. "I've talked about pretty men before. I've heard the term 'a handsome woman'. Maybe I'll settle for that. What do you think?"

She gets very busy, combing my long strands of hair out of the brush. Then she winds them into a little ball, fluffing it thoughtfully before depositing it almost gently in the wastepaper basket. "I think that might be an appropriate term. Now go wait in the livingroom while I get ready."

Chapter Eight: Girls' Nite Out

The name of the place is Lavender's Green. It's not just a bar, it's a club. There's a funky little band, besides a jukebox, and a well used dance floor. I notice that the couples using the dance floor consist of all varieties, mixed as well as both types of single gender. Wow, bohemian. There sure must have been a lot tucked away in the dark inked corners of those comic books that I missed.

It's a weeknight, but the place is still crowded. It must get really packed on weekends. The booths and tables are full, so we sit at the bar. I'm so happy that I spin on my stool a couple of times, till Lois puts a restraining hand on my arm. The bartender seems amused, though. "What can I get ya, pal?"

"Strawberry daiquiri?" He looks blank. Uh oh. I remember how limited the alcohol consumption was in the comics. Some wines with fancy meals, and the real sophisticates drank 'cocktails', which all looked like martinis. There seems to be a full compliment of bottles behind the bar. Yes, they had no problem with drawing the proper backgrounds. But most of the bottles were still pretty full. "Vodka and tonic?" He can do that.

I sip it when it comes. Another discovery. The comic book kingdom has kick ass alcohol. It's as strong, if not stronger, than anything I've tasted. Another plus. Lois, not too surprisingly, has a white wine spritzer.

Shall we be honest here? With me, the taste of the drink is a secondary consideration. As far as flavor goes, I'd rather have a soda pop. If I'm drinking alcohol at all, I'm drinking for the effect. I don't start drinking unless I intend to get drunk. Period, end of story. I classify myself as a social drinker, because when I drink, boy, do I get social. You've heard of alcohol lowering inhibitions? Allow me to raise my hand and testify.

Oh, I don't get to the point where you need to call the authorities. I just get looser. I like myself a little bit better, or at least I'm less concerned with others not liking me. Oh, and I get musical. Yeah, that's right. I'm one of those drunks who likes to sing if there's music around. I'm the terror of the local kareoke nights, though I have trained myself to give up the microphone before it's forcibly removed. As long as I'm still semi sober, that is. Lawrence and Alex have carted me home a time or two, three sheets and a pillowcase to the wind.

After I finish the first drink, I ask the bartender if he can mix something to order. He says that he'll try. I direct him in pouring vodka, peach schnapps, grapefruit juice, and cranberry juice over ice, and stirring. I take a deep, satisfying drink, and he watches, curious. "What is that?"

"Sex on the Beach." He knocks over a dish of maraschino cherries, Lois chokes on a mouthful of drink, and several patrons drop items ranging from change to glasses. "What?" I look around innocently, but the little devil on my left shoulder is having a hard time holding on, because he's laughing so hard.

"Sex?"

"On the Beach." I nod.

He gets a notebook out of his pocket, clicks a pen, and starts writing. "Vodka, peach schnapps, grapefruit juice..."

"Excuse me," A slender young man in a mist green turtleneck, his arm looped around the thick neck of a guy wearing a windbreaker, calls. "We'd like two Sex on the Beach, please." He giggles. There is a murmur, and several other patrons start pulling out purses and wallets. The bartender gives his assistant some cash and tells him to run next door to the grocery and get some grapefruit and cranberry juice, pronto.

As he quickly mixes the drinks, Lois hisses, "Scribe, you're bad! Where did you come up with that?"

"Hey, it's not my fault. A friend once dared me to memorize a list of rude drinks. It was fun, and it became a hobby of mine."

"You know more of these?" The bartender asked eagerly.

"Oo, tons."

"That one's on the house, and every one you teach me, I'll make you one for free." he offers.

I quickly polish off the drink I have. "Okay. How about a Slow, Comfortable Screw?" The little waitress, a pocket-sized creature who looked a bit like Tinkerbelle, had been leaning between Lois and I to place a drink order on the counter, and almost fell into my lap. I caught her and put her back on her feet. "Hey, Teenyweeny, you okay?"

"Uh huh. You are bad." But she was smiling when she said it.

"And you're losing tips," said Lois sourly. Tinkerbelle arched an eyebrow at her, smiled at me again, and sashayed off.

I think I'm beginning to see why people are having such a, by my standards, exaggerated reaction to me. They haven't seen or heard anything like this before. It's sort of like someone who thought Doris Day was hot stuff being confronted with Madonna. Me, outrageous? Now there was a concept. The very idea that I, an approaching middle age, middle class, mostly mainstream virgin, could scandalize the populace is... interesting. Exactly how far would I have to go before someone turned the fire hoses on me?

As I drank the sloe gin and orange juice drink the bartender had mixed for me (and was now reproducing for curious customers), Lois said, "I need to run to the powder room. Will you be all right here by yourself?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, mom. I promise to scream like a banshee if some dirty old man puts his hands on my pristine body." Lois was giving a hard stare to an elegant woman with salt and pepper hair, dressed in a severe business suit, who'd just sat on my other side. The woman had bumped me, and I turned my head to hear her apology, missing what Lois was saying, as the band started up again. I looked back, "Sorry?"

"Not just dirty old men, Scribe."

My eyebrows couldn't quite make it to my hairline, since we'd scraped back what passed for bangs. Damn, Lois is even more paranoid than my mom. She thinks the entire population wants to molest me, not just the guys "Please. As if. I'm a grown woman."

She took her purse, muttering. "You're making me wonder, kiddo. No more for you tonight."

I narrowed my eyes, watching her swish off through the crowds. Oh, really? We'd forgotten about my little quid pro quo deal with the barkeep, hadn't we? One more would get me nicely buzzed, but not actually sloshed. "Oh, Sam..."

"Call me Toddy, Princess."

"Whatever you say, oh Dispenser of Intoxicating Libations. Brandy, Triple Sec, light rum. Shake it up good."

He worked quickly. "And this is?"

"Gimme first." I took the drink and chugged it. Okay, I shouldn't have done that. Truth be told, despite my show of independence, I didn't really want Lois to catch me with another drink. Last thing I needed was a snippy roommate. I gave a brief shudder as the alcohol raced into my bloodstream. Was comic book alcohol faster acting, or what? I sighed and licked my lips happily. Then I noticed that most of the other patrons at the bar were looking at me expectantly. "Oh, sorry. Between the Sheets." I swear, there were squeals and blushes. Damn, these people were easily entertained. "That's it for tonight, Toddy."

"But you'll come back and teach me some more, won't you?"

"Don't see why not. I took educational courses in college, that teacher's training ought to be put to some use."

The business suited woman looked interested. "You're a teacher? Are you... strict?"

"I'm not a teacher. I'm more of a repository of interesting, but totally useless trivia."

"I think you'd be an excellent instructor. Would you be interested...?"

"Scribe." I felt Lois' hand on my shoulder. "I got us a table."

"Hold on, Lois. I think I'm about to get a job offer."

The other woman sort of shrunk under my friend's stare. "It's not the type of work you'd be interested in. Trust me."

As I followed her, I grumbled. "Well, darn. I'm grateful to be dogsbody at the Planet, but that might have been a chance for a professional career."

"It was professional, all right. Forget it."

"All right." We were crossing the dance floor. They were playing some sort of bouncy sixties concoction, somewhat like 'Help Me, Rhonda'. Blame it on the alcohol. I started bouncing instead of walking. At the appropriate moments, I'd pause and shimmy a little. Lois got farther ahead. Some big guy in jeans and a black leather jacket got in front of me and ponied back and forth, grinning, blocking my way. Oh, cripes, I think I was being flirted with. I giggled and ponied, too. Then I did the swim, which apparently was a new one to him, because I managed to overhead stroke my way around him.

Just as I got past him I heard, "Scribe!"

"Present!" I hurried over to the table and sat.

"What were you doing?"

"Just then? The swim. I had to. The music has a good beat, and you can dance to it. I give it an 85." I giggled. "Always wanted to Rate a Record."

She looked at me closely. "How drunk are you?"

"Drunk enough. I haven't quite reached the don't give a flying you know what at a rolling donut level yet. That would take three or four more. I'm at the damn, I'm feeling mellow stage."

"You are a lot more relaxed than you have been."

"Yeah. Ain't I cute? That's what Lawrence and Alex always say, anyway."

"Maybe you'd better stick to juice or soda the rest of the night."

"Yes mom." I didn't care. I was nicely buzzed, and it was enough. We listened to the band, and watched the couples dance. The music was all right--lots of stuff that was vaguely familiar, nothing that was completely recognizable. Sometimes I found that I knew snatches of words to songs. The need to sing was growing, making me twitch in my seat, even if most of it was sugary pop stuff.

Lois excused herself to go to the powder room again. Girl must have a bladder like a peanut. Or maybe the girdle was the problem? As she got up, she looked at me sharply. "Am I going to come back and find someone draped over you?"

Precisely what the hell is that supposed to mean? "Not unless there's an earthquake, and someone gets tossed on my lap." She almost smiled before leaving. It was easier for her to get across the dance floor, because it was emptying at that moment.

The lead singer on the band dais moved a mike stand front and center. "All right, people! Time for us to rest our lungs and you be the star! You can go solo, or we'll back you up, if we know it or can fake it. Who's first?" There was a lot of tittering, but no movement toward the stage.

*No you don't, Scribe* "Come on, folks. Don't be shy." *Uh uh. You don't know any of their songs. Most of the ones you know would probably induce coronaries around here. Of course, I wouldn't have to sing Nine Inch Nails...* "Please, people. We're dying up here. *And it's not like I have an image to live up to. "People! I dare you!" *Fuck it.*

"Mememememe!"

I'm up on the dais before the angel on my right shoulder has time to squeak. "And y'all don't know this one, so just hang back and hang on. I'll make it as painless as possible."

I started 'Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth', by Meatloaf. Damn, I wished I had the music, with that hypnotic beat. "It was a hot summer night, and the beach was burnin'..." I'm gonna work this one. I don't know these people. I'm not going to be around them for them to tease me. "I can see a shootin' star fallin' through your tremblin' hands."

I close my eyes, fingers spreading like I'm feeling the music. "While you were licking' your lips and lipstick shinin' I was dyin' just to get one taste..." Eyes still closed, I reach out in a gesture that could be invitation, could be pleading. "The night is young and no one's gonna know where you been. Then you took the words right out of my mouth. Oh, it must've been while you were kissin' me. You took the words right out of my mouth. And I swear it's true I was just about to say I love you..."

I'm really caught in it now. I think I'm scrambling verses, interchanging lines. The beauty of it is, they don't know. I can't be condemned for not giving a phonographic reproduction of the song. I'm being taken solely for my interpretation.

"Body is shakin' like a wave on the water... Lying together in a silver lining..." I think the line about the jeans almost bursting might get me arrested in some places in this dimension, but it just draws a surprised gasp here. I finally risk opening my eyes, since no one is throwing ice. I come to the last part, just the two line chorus, repeated over and over again, varying in intensity and tone. "Took the words right out of my mouth. *clapclapclap.* Whoa, they're into it! "Aw, must've been while you were kissin' me." Several times. Now the whole crowd is clapping in the right place, bless 'em. Some of them are singing the words with me. I am having a very good time.

Till I notice Lois, standing on the edge of the crowd. She doesn't look pleased. Oh, well, the song was coming to an end anyway. I finished with an abrupt stomp, making cutting motions with my hands.

I get applause. I'm not kidding you. I think there was a little table pounding and stamping, too. So I take a bow, then get down off the dais, sit down at the table, and become very interested in my glass of diluted orange juice.

The Faerie waitress puts a slip of paper down on the table near my hand. "Wow, that was... wow."

"You should hear me when I know what I'm doing." I pick up the paper, glancing at it to see what our tab is. It isn't a bill, it's a phone number. "Uh..."

She's twirling one strand of blonde hair around her finger coyly. "I get off at two."

The slip of paper is plucked out of my fingers, and flipped back on the table. Lois says frostily. "She'll have been asleep for several hours by then." She glares at me. I bare my teeth in a sheepish grin. "You have your first day of work tomorrow. Come on."

Chapter Nine: Taxi Ride

Lois' POV Finally

She doesn't know I'm writing this. I'm slipping it in, I'll tell her about it later. I know she wants to do this on her own, but I'm a journalist, damn it. I have to write.

My name is Lois Lane. I suppose you've figured that out by now, but as Scribe says, "Never underestimate the potential for stupidity in the human race." If you already guessed, that wasn't meant for you. If it applied to you, you probably don't know enough to be insulted, anyway.

I don't want to spend a lot of time going over old territory, so I'll be brief about what's gone before.

I didn't know what to think when Superman showed up on my balcony, trying to put the moves on a filthy, bedraggled, wild eyed woman. Hmph, artificial reparation, my eye. That line was old the day after the Red Cross invented the maneuver.

The story was a little bizarre, but it's not like we haven't dealt with interdimensional travel before, right? It's just usually on a grander scale. This was much smaller, more personal. No 'save the universe'. Just one very bewildered, and very bewildering woman.

I was happy to take her in, for the reasons I gave her. Besides, she smelled of 'story' even more than she smelled of whatever had been on the floor of that alley. And I never could resist a good story. I figured she'd make a good roommate. And I wasn't thinking in a sexual way. I promise. That didn't happen till I brought the nightshirt into the bathroom.

There she was, knees crooked up, chin sunk in the water, long strands of damp red brown hair waving on the bath surface, and about two acres of startled blue eyes. Eyes left, Lois, I told myself. But when she made that comment about not being able to walk around naked, I got a familiar, funny little thrill. She was being flippant (she has her serious moments. Not many, but they're there). Mixed signals. I was going to get a lot of mixed signals in the next few days, as bad as if someone was speaking half in morse code, half in semaphore.

When she showed up in the nightshirt, she looked like a very large twelve year old, sleepy and shining. That was until she spread out the sides of the gown to demonstrate its width. That pulled the cloth over her chest tight enough to show breasts, and I started wondering. The comment about two in a nightshirt gave me a wicked impulse to crawl in with her and see what happened. Good thing I didn't. She'd have probably gone into shock.

When she talked about her mama controlling her life, I thought I had a handle on it. The boys have their daddies, we girls have our mommies. I hadn't played that role before, but there was no reason why I couldn't, I thought. But if she was pining for someone back in her home dimension, it wouldn't be fair to take advantage, so I kept putting out cautious feelers. Good thing.

Turns out her mama was the biological kind. She seemed to be blissfully ignorant of any other possibilities, so I decided that I'd better move very slowly and cautiously here. It was a good idea, but at times Scribe is about as slow and cautious as a freight train on a mountains side with the brakelines cut.

She had my head screwed around on the shopping expedition. She totally rejected the feminine outerwear, choosing clothes that would be more appropriate for Jimmy Olsen. All right, they looked cute on her, I won't argue about that. But just when I'd about decided I had a butch on my hands, she bypassed the boxers and bought perfectly acceptable panties. She wanted the shoes, but not the tie. I was beginning to see what she meant about labels. It was beginning to look like she wouldn't be neatly slotted anywhere.

She was sweet and grateful about the clothes, but oh, she was a nudge about the hair! I thought, very strongly, that she needed to keep it for a touch of femininity. I hadn't planned on taking her to the club so soon, I didn't think she was ready for it. But she sulked and pouted so about the hair, I caved in. I could see the other woman at the next table, who was with a very spoiled looking young one, giving me commiserative looks. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I wasn't even in a relationship, and here I was being manipulated.

Again, for those of you who are perceptually impaired: I'm bi. So, yes, I was considering a relationship with her. I like guys well enough from time to time, but they're not my snog of choice, and haven't been since pre-junior high.

But she was unlike the other women I'd been with so far, very confusing. I suppose that shouldn't surprise me, given the fact that she was defying several thousand laws of physics by just existing.

She took to Lavender's Green like a gasping goldfish being slipped back into its bowl. I kept waiting for her to start asking questions about the same sex dancers, the guys wearing makeup, the girls wearing business suits. Nothing. She took it all in with bright eyed interest and a small smile. I began to wonder exactly what things were like in her home dimension.

She almost caused a riot at the bar. When I come back from the powder room, I find some rich bitch jane trying to put the moves on her, and she's just sitting there politely studying the hawk's business card. I suppose I shouldn't have left her alone after that but, well, spritzers 'do that' to me, and I had to take another comfort break.

This time it looked like she was trying to seduce the whole room when I came back. My God, they allow them to sing songs like that in public? It was so... raw. Very explicit images, not the misty romance we usually hear. Excitement was moving through the crowd. I saw quite a few butts being grabbed. She's up there, moaning and gasping the song, reaching out to the audience like she wants to stroke them, and the entire time her eyes are just shining with joy. And I realize she doesn't really know what she's doing. She's just having fun.

She cuts it short when she sees me, and I feel a tiny bit guilty for spoiling the fun. That is until that little blonde twist tries to give her phone number. No way. It's her life, and all that, but I feel responsible for her, and she's not going to go diving into one night stands if I can help it.

I got her out of the club and hailed a taxi. Inside I told her, "Roll down your window. You need some fresh air."

"Sure." She obliged. "But I'm not drunk, you know. I'm a long way from drunk" She giggled. "Scary, ain't it?"

"Are you always like that when you drink?"

"Mmmmm. Actually, that was what I'm usually like, but cranked up a couple of notches. Usually by the time I'm that loose, I'm about to fall down, so I don't do as much. Watch this." She quickly stuck her head out the window. She panted rapidly while her braid whipped in the wind, starting to unravel. She sat back down and grinned at me charmingly. "Quick impression of a beagle on a road trip."

I'm trying to decide between snapping at her and laughing when she suddenly lunges over and hugs me. I freeze. She's big and warm, and her arms swallow me up. Her face rests briefly against my shoulder, the wiry silk of her escaping hair touching my face. I'm about to melt when she pulls back, holding my arms, and gives me a little shake. "Do you know what this means?" Her face is alight with discovery.

I croak, "What does it mean?"

"It means I'm finally one of the Cool Kids!" She lets go, sitting back. I sway after her, missing the enveloping softness, then catch myself and sit up straight.

"Cool kids?"

"You know, there are always Cool Kids. It starts out the second kids start spending time in groups. There's the Cool Kids, and there's everyone else. It's the same everywhere in my world, and I bet it's the same here. High school, college, even in the workplace. They're the ones who always have someone to eat lunch with, someone to sit on the bus with. They never get chosen last for anything. People never call them 'What'syername'. I've always been fringe, a little too oddball to fit into any well defined clique. But here..." Her voice sank into glad wonder. "Here my kind of weird doesn't seem to be a social stigma. To quote Sally Fields, "They liked me. They really liked me!"

What was I supposed to say to that? She didn't seem to be aware of the caliber of attention she'd been attracting. I believe she just marked it down to people being naturally interested in something or someone quirky, and outside their usual experience.

How could she flirt so shamelessly with the world, and then sit there practically dripping with innocense? That hug had told me that she might not know that there were different levels of teasing, and that she'd moved up onto the adult playing field.

Chapter Ten: One Little Grope Can Suddenly Make Things Clearer

I didn't have a hangover the next morning, and this seemed to disappoint Lois. I think she was waiting to give me a 'consequences of acting irresponsible' lecture. Been there, done that, bought the tee shirt. I'd had enough of those before I got out of junior high, long before I'd ever committed any irresponsible behavior to incur consequences. To make her happy and get her off my back, I did the big, dewy eyed, thoughtful bit. She looked suspicious. Good for her. I couldn't respect anyone who was taken in that easily by my bullshit.

Work wasn't exactly stimulating, but it wasn't aggravating, either. There were a few other lower level employees at the Daily Planet: copy boys and cub reporters, apprentices in the printing department, and I was invited to hang with them on breaks, and at lunch. It was all guys. After a few quiet, slightly awkward moment, I told them the story about Grandma's cat house. After several seconds of soda spraying, red faced, table pounding laughter, they started to treat me like one of the guys. I've now discovered that I have a fresh audience for almost every joke I've ever known, particularly if it's the least bit risque.

Not long before quitting time, Lois came over to 'my' desk. I hadn't seen much of her during the day. I always seemed to be leaving a room as she was entering, and vice versa. "Scribe, I'd forgotten that I have a late interview with a mayoral candidate. With his schedule, I had to make it for dinner. You'll have to spend the evening alone. If you don't want to cook, there are takeout menus on the refrigerator."

"No cash."

"Here." She rummaged in her purse, and handed me some money. It looked kind of like money from my world, just a little off. I reminded myself that the currency has changed over the last few decades. "Take a taxi home, you know the address. I may not be back till around midnight." She hesitated. "Don't go running around by yourself. You still don't know enough about this world to go off on your own."

"Yes, mother."

When she left, I swivelled in my chair, and grinned at Jimmy, sitting at the next desk. "Hey, Jimmy. Are you legal?"

He grinned back. "Depends on what you had in mind, sugar. I'm pretty much good to go for anything."

"Want to go grab a bite and something to drink after work?"

One eyebrow quirked up. "I thought she told you not to go wandering around."

"A, despite my joking reference, she is not my mother. B, she said don't go wandering around alone. If you come with me, I won't be alone, will I?"

His grin broadened. "What a delightfully twisted sense of logic you have, my dear. Yeah, I'll be glad to come. I won't have enough to stand you treat, though."

I waved this off. "Technically speaking, I'm asking you out. Besides, I know somewhere I can drinks for free. That is, as long as it wouldn't bother you to drink things with names like Fuzzy Navel." He burst out laughing.

We ended up having to work a little late, when copy for an article somehow got trashed, and had to be replaced. It was six-thirty by the time we reached Lavender's Green, and the place was open, but quiet.

Tinkerbelle wasn't on duty yet. Instead there was a cheerful girl who looked a lot like Betty Page, including impossibly high heels. She got us sandwiches from the kitchen, and they were pretty decent for a place that's mainly a watering hole and cruising hangout.

Toddy came on at seven, and he came over to the table to greet me. "Hi, Scribe. Glad to see you again. I wasn't sure Lois was going to let you out."

I rolled my eyes. "What is this? It's not like she's my legal guardian, or anything. You ready for another drink exchange?"

"You bet!" He whipped out a pen and notebook.

"One for me, and one for my friend, huh?" Toddy nodded. "Okay." I ticked off on my fingers. "For Jimmy, half ounce each of bourbon, Ammaretto, southern comfort and slow gin. Some triple sec, orange juice, pineapple juice over ice in a big glass."

"And that is?"

I smile demurely at my companion. "Well, if Jimmy drinks that, then he's had some Red Hot Loving."

Jimmy laughs while Toddy scribbles, "And for you?"

I consider. "Make me a Will Rodgers. Half ounce gin, half ounce vermouth, triple sec, and orange juice."

"Will Rodgers?"

"Drink enough of them, and you'll never meet a man you won't like."

"Oh, I'm gonna sell a lot of those."

The band showed up at about the same time our drinks arrived. The lead singer came over and greeted me. "Hey, it's the songbird. You sure did liven things up the other night. You got any more of those hot songs you could teach us?"

"I don't know how to write music."

"Shoot, we can fake like a sonuvabitch. If you can just sing it, and give us some idea of how the music sounds, we can crank out an approximation."

"Well..." The shoulder devil is whispering frantically, crawling up under my fuzzy curtain of hair to reach my ear. "There's one I love, and I know all the way through. If I taught it to you, could I sing lead on it one night?"

"Hell yes. I'm counting on it."

So I started to tell them about a certain Robert Palmer hit that had always grabbed me by the throat. I sang it for them a couple of times, and they started noodling with chords and riffs, feeling out the music. The drummer caught it right away. Oh, hell, yeah, it's the drums that drive this sort of song.

The main problem was the chorus. There was a line or two in there that sort of overlapped the main lyrics, and I hated to give up part of one to sing the other. I wanted the full effect. The singer solved the problem by beckoning over Betty Page and Tinkerbelle, who'd arrived a little earlier, and having a discussion with them. They greeted the idea with enthusiastic giggles and nods. Their part was easy, and they caught it quickly.

By now the place was filling up, and everyone had to get to work. But we figured that with one more practice session tomorrow afternoon, we'd be ready to present it on Saturday night.

I was back at the table, working on a Gin Sin (Toddy loved that one, too), when Lois came in. I considered crawling under the table as she stalked over to us. Jimmy looked sympathetic. "Want me to fake a seizure and see if that will distract her?"

"I think it would probably take an atomic bomb, but thanks for the thought. Hi Lois!," I said brightly. "So you got my note?"

She stood beside me, hands on hips, eyes shooting lavender sparks. "I didn't see any note. What are you doing here?"

"Charity work. Toddy needs more new drinks to help with business. I thought you were going to be out till midnight?"

"He had a family emergency of some sort. I think his kid ended up in the drunk tank."

Jimmy whistled. "Why aren't you at the precinct house finding out?"

"The police beat reporter will get it in, if it's true." Jimmy looked shocked. Lois Lane, turning down the chance at something that juicy? Lois kept her eyes fixed on me. "I called to check on you, and there was no answer. I go to the apartment, no sign. I figured I'd try here before I started calling hospitals."

"Lois, please sit down. I'm getting neck strain, looking up at you." She sat, glowering. "For heaven's sake, what are you so pissed about? I'm getting dinner with a friend. That's a lot better than eating alone."

She looks a bit abashed, as if conceding that she's overeacted. "Why didn't you go to the automat?"

"I like it here. It has a friendly atmosphere."

"I don't like you being here alone. There's no telling what you might get up to." She looked past me, frowning, and said, "Or what might get up to you."

A slender hand touched my arm, and I turned in my seat to see who it was. I found myself looking up at a tall woman dressed in a khaki WACS uniform. She had a smooth black pageboy, and her face was angular, exotic, and beautiful behind another pair of dorky glasses. She looked familiar, as so many of this universe's people did, but it took me a second to realize what it was. It would have been easier if she'd been wearing brief leather and studded armor. She was a dead ringer for the Lucy Lawless character, Xena.

"Hello, you're Scribe, right?" She offered her hand. "Diana Prince." Oh, no wonder the cultural reference. Yeah, she looked more like my mental image of Wonder Woman than Linda Carter had. Another 'glasses as disguise' schtict. I shook hands. She smiled at Lois, "Lois. Long time, no see."

"Diana." Frost dripped off the single word.

Without asking, she took an extra chair and drew it to our table, seating herself at the corner between Jimmy and me. she ignored the empty chair across from me. She smiled at me. "Lois and I go way back. She was our local contact for base news years ago. So, when did you get rid of Lana, Lois?"

"Lana and I parted amicably quite awhile ago."

"I'm not too surprised. Like they say, you can take the girl out of Smallville, but you can't take Smallville out of the girl." She gave me a very odd smile. "Don't get me wrong, I like vanilla. I just like it with a little spice."

Tinkerbelle wafted over to the table, "Scribe? Toddy want to know if you have any more drinks for him." She handed me his notebook and a pen. "Just write it down, and he'll send it over. He said if you'll do more than one, he'll make them up for your friends." She sort of bit off the word 'friends', looking archly at my companions.

"Sure, let's see what I can come up with. Lemme think, there's four of us..." I started scribbling, mumbling to myself.

Someone said, "Hey, she's getting ready to do drinks again!" When I finished writing and handed the notebook back to Tinkerbelle, a small crowd had gathered. "Okay, " I tried to shoo her away, suddenly wishing I'd picked a few less risque combinations. I'm not sure why, unless it was the stare that Diana Prince was giving me. I could almost feel the weight. "G'wan and take those to Toddy."

"What are they?" someone asked.

"Find out at the bar," I suggested.

Jimmy said, "Nah, tell us now, so I can decide which one I want."

"Gimme that back, I'll take it to him." I tried to grab the notebook, but she skipped who the fuck skipped these days? out of reach, and started reading.

"Gin and Cranberry/Cherry juice. That's a Cherry Picker." There were appreciative giggles, elbows were dug into sides. "Tequila gold, sweet-and-sour, triple sec, lime, 7Up... Seven up?"

"Clear lemon lime soft drink. Gimme." I snatched again, but missed.

Diana Prince looked amused. "What have you written down that you don't want us to hear? Are you trying to corrupt that girl?"

"...and cranberry juice, with a cherry. Golden Sexual Favor. Share the cherry with your 'friend'." Wild titters. I groaned. Why the hell had I put friend in quotation marks?

"Vodka, peach schnapps, cranberry juice and blue Curacao." Her voice dropped. "That's Foreplay."

"Sounds like it to me," someone joked.

"And last, but not least, we have..." as she read, her voice trailed off, and she blushed.

"What is it?" Several people in the crowd were asking curiously.

I made another frantic grab for the notebook. I was properly horrified when Diana Prince plucked it out of Tinkerbelle's hands. "That last one's no good! Let me scratch it out and put in a Dirty Girl Scout instead."

Diana adjusted her glasses and read, "Vodka, Ammaretto, Kahlua, and light cream." She paused, and her eyes flicked up toward me. She gave me a slow smile, like she'd just found out a secret about me. "A Screaming Orgasm." There was a soft plop as one very genteel looking lady collapsed before anyone around her could react. Then the crowd broke into a howl.

Diana handed the notebook back to Tinkerbelle, and the crowd followed her eagerly back to the bar. She pursed her lips, studying me closely. I hid behind my hair, but I'm pretty sure the glow from my blush was visible anyway. Why was I suddenly so embarrassed?

I suddenly felt a hand on my knee, under the table. "I think I'd like one of those," Diana purred. Her hand slid up farther along my thigh. "I bet you'd like one, too. Maybe we could have one together." Her hand started to slide to the inside.

I stood up so fast that my chair made a noise like a plane taking off. I said, very distinctly, "Gosh, would you look at the time? I think I'd better go home. Now. Bye." And I made for the door like Pearl Pureheart fleeing from Oilcan Harry.

Chapter Eleven: Comes the Dawn

So I had an epiphany in a gay bar, deep in some whacked out comic book universe. The second that Diana Prince's hand started to slide over the inside of my chino clad thigh, and I saw that look on her face that was something like a feral cat presented with a plate of chopped filet. Bang. Wham. Heaven's open up. Comes the dawn.

This woman is trying to put the moves on me. This woman is horny, and it's directed at me. And I have not been chosen as randomly as one of those damn numbered ping-pong balls that blow up out of a swirling mass to present the winning numbers in Lotto. I have done something to attract that hot stare and even hotter hand.

Fuck!

Time to leave. My speed would have shocked my old junior high gym teacher. My lack of manners in saying my fair wells would have made Miss Manner's heave. All I know is that I am simultaneously crystal clear about what has been going on, and more confused than ever.

I'm halfway down the block before Jimmy catches up with me, and that says a lot about my state, because he's a young, active dude. "Yo, Scribe! Hold up, dammit! You can't just go racing around the streets down here after dark all by yourself."

I manage to hold still long enough for him to catch up, then take off again. "Geez, will you calm down!" He grabs my arm, and steers me over to a little coffee shop. "Come in here and sit down, before you run in front of a bus."

He pushes me into a booth, sliding in after me to keep me from rocketing off again. He studies me for a second, then says, "If it was anyone else, I'd suggest warm milk to calm them down." He reflects my glare without melting. "But since it's you, I think you need sugar and caffeine to calm your nerves." And he orders a soda and donuts from the waitress. "Okay, now what brought that on?"

"What brought what on? It was late."

He rolls his eyes. "And you were so exhausted that you decided to sprint home. Try again."

The waitress sets down the soda, and starts to lower the plate of donuts. "Jimmy, do you think I'm gay?" The plate tilts, and the donuts hit the table, rolling. I catch them before they can escape, and tell the waitress (who must be working some long hours, because she's white as a sheet) "That's okay. The table is clean enough." I pile the donuts back on the plate as she wobbles off.

He's arching those pale eyebrows again. He says slowly. "Well, I kinda assumed you were. Living with Lois, and the way you dress, and all. Or I thought maybe you were bi, because you flirt with guys, too."

"But Jimmy, the way I dress is really, really middle of the road where I come from, and.... Living with Lois? Why would that make you think... Oops."

Jimmy's leaning his elbow on the table, chin propped in his hand. "Yeah. She has something going with Superman, buuuut... She had something going with his old flame Lana, too, up until recently. You really didn't know?"

I slump in the seat and arrange my hair over my face. It makes a very effective curtain. Veronica Lake had the right idea, she just didn't take it far enough. I tap my forehead. "NAIVE. Printed right across here in capital letters. I mean, I knew that was a gay bar, kind of hard to miss it. But I thought she was, well, cosmopolitan."

Jimmy blinked. "I don't think I've heard it called that before."

"Ooh, cripes, have I been a dim bulb." I find one of the donuts by feel and bring it back behind the security screen and start munching. It isn't all that easy to keep from getting a mouthful of hair, but I manage.

"That still doesn't explain why you moved out of there like someone slipped a firecracker down your pants."

"No firecracker. Someone... uh... a hand got slipped between my legs."

Revelation flashes in Jimmy's eyes. "Oh, you got groped. Well, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner."

I part my hair and stare at him. "Hardly sympathetic, Mr. Olsen."

He shrugs. "It's what you wanted, isn't it?"

I wonder how I'm going to get the sprayed donut crumbs out of my hair later, but there's no time to worry about it. I flip the hair out of my face and stare back at him. "Why would you say that?"

He seems bewildered. "Well, hell, you were flirting with anything that had a pulse."

"I was not!"

"Yes you were. A few more drinks, and I'd have tried to sit on your lap."

"But... but... but I was just joking around."

"Did you joke around like that back home?"

"Yeah. I used to go to gay clubs with a couple of my friends. I had fun. No one ever took it seriously. For real. I mean, some used to flirt back, but I knew they didn't mean it."

"Are you sure about that?" I opened my mouth, but really didn't know what to say to that. Nothing had ever come of it, anyway. I'd always had a good time, and went home with Lawrence and Alex. "Geez, Scribe. You've been pretty blatant by our standards. I mean, I listened to the waitresses talk about the time you sang about making out on the beach, and I watched you with the band. You mean to tell me that sort of exhibitionism is considered common in your world? It isn't considered at least titillating?"

I put my head in my hands. How in God's name could I explain Madonna to anyone who would think that 'Help Me Make It Through The Night' was near pornographic? Or Wendy O. Williams, who used to perform clad from the waist up in nothing but electrician's tape or shaving cream? It might be better not to introduce these concepts. "Oh, cripes, major communications foul up. I guess I need a tee shirt that says 'JUST KIDDING'."

"A talking tee shirt?"

"That's right, y'all don't have message tees yet. Damn, I could make a fortune in this world, if I just had a little technical knowledge." I drank most of my soda in one throat numbing, fizzy gulp, narrowly avoiding a cold headache. I sighed. "I've really been flirting?"

He nods. "Enough for an entire school system of girls, ages thirteen to eighteen."

I can't help myself. "Am I good at it?"

He smirks. "You're doing a champion job right now." And he puts his hand on my knee.

Oddly enough, I don't feel the urge to climb over the table and flee. But I'm not sure if that's because he's a guy or because he's Jimmy. I mean, I like him. "I thought you thought I was gay?"

The hand finger-walks a little higher. "I'm leaning more toward bi, now. It may just be hopeful thinking on my part. Of course, what matters is what you think."

"I think I'm almost as confused as I was when I started out this morning, except now I know that I'm confused." He's located a sensitive spot at the top of my thigh that I didn't know I had, and when he rubs it my leg vibrates a little, almost like when you scratch one of 'those spots' on a dog's chest. "I'm not sure I freaked so bad because Diana Prince is a woman, than that she's a scary woman."

"How do you feel about redheaded cub reporters of Swedish lineage?"

"Who are, like, about two decades younger than me?"

"Let's say young, healthy, and with terrific stamina."

"Who's the flirt? I'm highly suspicious of the ID you showed at the club, and I'd rather not be tossed for corrupting a minor."

"Then why haven't you slapped my hand away?"

"I thought you were brushing powdered sugar off my pants. You can put it away, now. I'm not doing anything tonight except whining to myself in confusion and self pity."

"Okay." He removed his hand. "Just let me know when the angst-o-rama ends. So, does this mean that you're going to metamorphosis into a demure little lady?"

I snorted. "Oh, you know someone who can do a DNA swap, accompanied by complete character restructuring and a memory wipe? No. I expect to get crazy again. I'm just not going to let myself end up alone in the same room with Diana Prince. Not unless I'm wearing a steel chastity belt."

Chapter Twelve: Introducing Clive, the Leather Hairdresser

Scribe: "Snicker"

Most people, upon finding out that they are considered a shameless flirt, by both men and women, would pause to reflect on their previous behavior. Most people, upon realizing that their attitudes and actions, words and gestures, were considered flagrantly inciteful, would quickly change their manner, and become more demure, and retiring.

Yeah, well...

It was kind of exciting.

giggle

Jimmy had given me something to think about, though. He walked me the rest of the way home. When we got there, the door opened before I could use my key. Lois was there, one pump clad foot tapping. "Thanks for the escort, Jimmy." I said.

"Don't mention it." He leaned over and kissed me, and I think I felt just a little bit of tongue, then saluted Lois, winked at me, and sauntered off. I went in. The chill in the air as I passed Lois raised goose bumps on my arms. I went and sat in the livingroom. After she locked the door, she joined me, sitting across from me.

She crossed her arms, crossed her legs, and began tapping in mid air, one foot bouncing. At last I said, "You're mad, right?"

She sighed deeply. "I'm not mad, Scribe. I'm disappointed..."

I jumped up. "Jesus! For god's sake, not the 'I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed' bit. Isn't that legally reserved strictly for parents, grandparents, teachers and clergy? You sure as hell looked mad back at the club."

"You lied to me, Scribe. You were supposed to be going home."

"I never said I was going right home. I just..." I stopped, and shook my head. "No, I'm not gonna cop out that way. Any kid of mine used that kind of line, their butt would be as tanned as if they'd spent a weekend on a sunbed. I went because I wanted to go. I have fun there, Lois. They like me."

I hesitated. There was something I wanted to know. I'm sure that there were a million subtle, circuitous ways I could have phrased it, and gotten the answer I needed. Being myself, I was as tactful as a drunk at a MADD meeting. "Lois, are you hot for me?"

She didn't choke. That interviewing training must include being unflappable. She looked surprised, though, and said, "Aren't we a teeny bit self involved?"

"Absolutely," I agreed. "One of my more charming characteristics."

"Let's say... I'm warm for you."

"Fair enough."

"Does that bother you?"

"Like most things in this world, it confuses me. I thought you had something going with Superman."

"I do, but we're not exclusive. Well," her lips twisted in a wry smile. "I'm not. Him, I don't know. How do you feel about it?"

I sat cross-legged on the couch, elbows on knees, and chin in hand. "I'm honestly not sure. I got kind of tingly when Super put the moves on me, Jimmy got a tingle out of me, I'm feeling some real interesting vibrations from you. I even might have been warmed up a little by Diana Prince, if she wasn't so freakin' scary."

Lois sat up straighter. "You're right there. Don't mess with her, Scribe. She's way out of your league. She's rough trade."

I blinked. "You mean as in S and M?"

"I mean as in ropes, gags, and iron bracelets, and if you don't like it, too damn bad."

"Eeeeewww. Not my scene. Nope. Scratch her off my Christmas list."

"Then you shouldn't go back to Lavender's Green. I've checked around, and she's been hanging out there."

"It's a public place, Lois. Nothing's going to happen to me in a public place."

She sighed. "I guess I'd have to tie you up to stop you, wouldn't I?"

I nodded. "And I already told you that's not my scene."

"And what is 'your scene'?"

"It has yet to be discovered."

"Want to look for it?"

I looked at her carefully. She was serious. I was flattered. After all, she was a very attractive woman. Hell, she was dating Superman, and she was interested in me? But I was too keyed up to make any kind of real judgement.

Yeah, that's right, I was being cautious. Stop laughing!

"Not tonight. Still too many bells and whistles in my head." I got up and crossed over to her. I bent down and kissed her.

Wow. Totally different from kissing a guy. Much softer. No whiskers. Very smooth. Extremely interesting. I pressed a little harder, and her lips opened.

Whoa. Okay, I'm kissing another woman open mouthed. As long as I'm doing that, I might as well kind of slide my tongue over and.....................................................................

Excuse me. Lost my train of thought there for a minute. She must have had a strawberry daiquiri before she left the club.

I pull back, and I'm breathing like I just ran up two flights of stairs. She just smiles at me and says, "Well."

I clear my throat. "This was a test. This was only a test. Had this been an actual seduction, you would have been instructed to move to the bedroom."

She nods. "That's okay, Scribe. But I'm warning you," her eyes glitter. "If you do something like that again, I may go Amazon on you and pull a Diana Prince. So be careful."

I decide that it might be prudent to adjourn to my bedroom.

The next morning, I'm seriously considering not going by Lavender's Green for that practice session with the band.

Okay, so I'm not so serious in the consideration. But I am thinking that maybe I should tone things down just a teeny, weeny bit.

snort

No, hey, really, I might have, if temptation hadn't been thrown in my face. Or rather slapped down on my desk. It came in the form of a pay envelope. I looked quizzically at Jimmy, who was on Payroll Patrol. "I haven't been here long enough to get one of these, have I?"

"The first article about you ran yesterday." He pointed. "That's your fee. Gonna take a poor, dry cub reporter out for a few?"

I ripped open the envelope. "So, what, you're a gigolo now?"

He leaned on my desk. "If given half the chance, but don't worry. I'm cheap and easy."

"Music to a dirty old broad's ears, sweetie. Holy moley." I pulled out a sheaf of bills. "Will you look at that?" I started counting. It looked kind of funny to me, not quite the right size, texture, or color, but it had the definite feel of genuine currency. "I think there's... Damn, two hundred. What gives?"

Jimmy examined a slip of paper. "The article was picked up by the wire service. You're gonna be famous, Scribe."

"Well, why not? I'm already a legend in my own mind. Get serious, Jimmy. This will be socked off to the supermarket tabloids in no time. I'll be keeping company with Sasquatch and pregnant ninety year old skydivers."

"I dunno. I think they're gonna hire a free lance photographer to follow you around. The shots will probably go national, too. Better stock up on sunglasses."

"God, you people are easily amused." I stared at the money. "You do know what this means, don't you?"

"What?"

I sighed happily. "Shopping spree."

I came back from lunch loaded down with parcels, and I refused to show them to Jimmy. I hid them in the supply room so I didn't have to explain them to Lois. Hey, I was perfectly justified in all my purchases, I just didn't want to have to defend them.

The mayoral candidate had rescheduled his interview, and now Lois had fresh questions concerning the guy's kid's turn in the drunk tank. Turns out junior had showed up wearing a State Patrol's uniform, complete with Smokey the Bear hat, but inside out. And no one could figure out where the hell it had come from.

That left my afternoon and evening free. Plus I could make my little sartorial and grooming changes without Mama Hen fussing over me.

The first stop after work was Lavender's Green. It wasn't quite open yet, but they let me and Jimmy in. I set Jimmy up with a Kiss in the Night, then I ran through the routine with the band and the waitresses. Oooo, I loved it! It was going to be a little raw, but that was part of the fun. I grabbed a sandwich (Tinkerbelle pouted because I wouldn't let her put it on her tab), and hurried off to a salon Toddy had recommended. "And ask for Clive. Tell him I sent you."

Okay, why not? Lots of guys had their hair styled by girls. As long as I got the effect I wanted. The place was called Attitudes. I liked it already.

I went to the front counter, scanning the familiar scene in back. Chairs, mirrors, shampoo stations. A half dozen patrons, male and female were being shampooed, conditioned, permed, and snipped by what looked to be an entirely female staff.

The receptionist was busy with a crossword puzzle book, and didn't look up. "Can I help you."

"In desperate need of a wash and haircut, please."

"Any particular stylist?"

"I was told to ask for Clive."

The woman yawned. "Everyone wants Clive, but he's selective about who he handles. Being the owner has it's privileges. I don't think he's taking on any new clients right..." She looked up, and her mouth dropped open. "Oh, my god."

I looked around quickly to see who'd come in behind me. No one there, but my braid flew around and almost smacked me in the face. I wrestled it back over my shoulder. "What?"

"Is that all yours?"

I frowned. "No, I mugged a quarter horse for it. Of course it's mine, and I want to get rid of it. What's the big deal?"

"It's just... there's so much of it."

"Yeah. Wait a minute." I mentally whipped through the hair styles I'd seen since arriving. I couldn't remember anything much longer than collar length. And it was natural that someone working in a salon would be more hair conscious. "There aren't many long hairs around these days, are there?"

"Not like that. That's the most I've seen in one place at one time since I've been working here, and that's over eight years."

"Woo, well, I'm number one again. Can you or can you not help me get rid of it?"

"Bettina!" A sprite in a smock, who looked somethin like Tinkerbelle's little sister, bounced up. "Bettina, go tell Clive he has a customer out here."

Bettina squeaked. "But Mr. Clive said he didn't want to be disturbed while his soap opera was on. Not for anyone. I don't want to get reamed out for disturbing him."

"Trust me, he'll be more likely to kiss you."

"I don't understand. He said..."

"Bettina, look at her." Bettina did. I stared back. The receptionist shook her head. "I guess you haven't been here long enough to understand. Just go get him, 'kay? Tell him we've got a live one."

Still looking doubtful, Bettina scurried toward the back of the shop. "You're beginning to worry me." I said.

She smiled. "Don't. If Clive decides to take you on, and I'd bet a month's salary he will, you'll get the best care available. He's so good that the hobnobs fight to get him to do them for their big charity bashes, and he only works on people who interest him."

"Uh..." I counted my remaining funds. Still pretty substantial, but I wanted to be able to pay Lois back for all the things she'd fronted me. "I'm not sure I'm going to be able to afford Clive."

"Don't worry. If he likes you, he'll work with you."

"And I'd like to know just who is so important that my express orders are disobeyed?" a voice roared. People jumped. There was a squeak that probably meant that some serious repair work was going to have to be done on some butchered 'do.

He came stalking up the aisle, kicking aside fluffs of hair with a pair of dead black engineer boots. Kind of like the kind I'd bought myself that afternoon. He went directly to the counter, focused in on Crossword Girl, totally oblivious to ducking and scattering stylists, and a twittering Bettina.

He wasn't big. He was about five seven, or eight, about my height. But he didn't give the impression of 'little'. He was wearing tight black leather pants, and a very tight black tank shirt that showed a well cut torso like it was painted on. His bare arms and shoulders were hairless and gleaming pale, but not the least bit 'girly'. His hair was longer than the style of the day, falling over his forehead and ears. It would have brushed his collar, if he'd been wearing one. It was a very thick, heavy mass of light brown waves. His face was starkly handsome, with high cheekbones and a wide mouth. And he had absolutely enormous brown eyes the exact color of a slightly melted Hershey's kiss. But they were snapping right now, and that full mouth was in a thin, hard line. I had the feeling that maybe I shouldn't attract too much attention to myself when he was in this mood.

He growled, "You know damn good and well I don't want to be disturbed for Eleanor Fucking Roosevelt when Destiny's Dilemma is on. It's on a commercial right now, so I have to hurry. What gives?" She pointed.

He glanced at me, then did a visible double take. He came around the counter, and I took a step back. I did not want to get this person riled. "No! Don't run away." His tone had suddenly gone from Royally Pissed to What Have We Here?

"Do you have people run away from you often?"

He smiled. The Hot Factor went up several points. "When I'm being a bastard, but that isn't all the time. I'm Clive." He held out a hand.

I shook it. "I gathered. My name is Scribe, and Toddy over at Lavender's Green suggested I come to you." I had a feeling that the gear wasn't a fashion statement. I also had a feeling that the attitude wasn't for show, either. A few of the folks at the clubs I ran with Alex and Lawrence had been into the B and D scene, and this guy looked like a Dominant, with a capital D.

"Oh, he's a good man, Toddy is."

"But the Cryptic Queen over there says you aren't taking new clients. So, I could use one of the others..."

"Don't be so hasty. Would you mind very much turning around and letting me have a look at your hair? I need to see if there's anything I can do with it." I obliged. "Would you mind if I undid this braid? It's a bit ratty, and I need to get a feel for your hair before I decide."

"Please yourself."

"Oh, thank you, dear girl. I will," he breathed. I felt him carefully unloop the rubber band that held the tail together. Boy, he was good. I didn't feel a single pinch. Then he unraveled the braid. A good bit of the curl was gone after the braiding, but it still fluffed and bushed and spiraled in an embarrassingly enthusiastic manner. His fingers combed through the length, disengaging a few tangles.

He'd moved up pretty close behind me. He was plunged almost elbow deep in my hair now. I could feel his hands encircling the back of my skull. "Oh, yessss," he sighed.

Hello. New kink, and I don't mean a permanent wave. "Um, does this mean I'm acceptable as a new client?"

His chuckle, right beside my ear, was warm and dark. "I'm going to do your hair."

"You know, if it's too much trouble, someone else can..."

"No, you don't understand. I'm going to do your hair. No one else gets their hands on you."

"Don't I have any say in this?"

"No."

"Uh, okay."

He took hold of one long, loose curl, and began to lead me toward the back of the shop. "I'm off duty for the rest of the afternoon. Bettina, love, if you allow anyone back to my private station, I'll kill you slowly."

Chapter Thirteen: Sex and a Haircut

It was mirrored. Clive's private workstation, that is. I'm talking paneled, and roofed. It was most definitely a room to get the hell out of if there was an earth tremor. It was a self-conscious person's nightmare, and a narcissist's wet dream.

He led me by my hair (and believe me, the significance of this did not escape me) to the back of the shop, and through a heavy, dark door. That and the floor were the only parts of the room structure that did not reflect. Well, I lie. The floor did reflect, but darkly, because it was glossy black tile.

"Have a seat, Precious. We need to have a little chat before anything gets started." He indicated the chair in front of the counter. I perched. God, that was a comfortable chair! I would have liked to have one of those for my house. It was a stylist's chair, but obviously custom made.

To start with it was extra wide, wider than most armchairs. I actually had space between my legs and the chair sides. You don't know how nice that is after years of trying to squeeze an Anna Nicole Smith body into Kate Moss sized chairs at the beauty shop. It was comfortably padded, upholstered in black leather well, duh. The footrest was another solid, padded section. In fact, it looked kind of like a hinged massage table. That gave me a clue.

Clive stood before me, tapping one foot, arms crossed. "First, let me explain that I don't have to do this. My business is quite successful, I don't have to cut any more, but I choose to."

"So this is sort of a hobby?"

"Oh, much more than that. It's an obsession. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'm not exactly a vanilla sort of person, as perhaps you've noticed. I have my pleasures, and this is one of them. Does that bother you?"

"No. Seems harmless enough."

His lips curled. "That part of it, anyway. Before you decide to turn yourself over to me, you have to know the rules. If they aren't acceptable, then I'll turn you over to one of my girls, go back to my office, cry, and beat off."

"Damn, and I thought I was direct."

"I'm a laser beam, sweetheart. Rule One: If I cut your hair, you come to me first for anything, anything else you need done later. I own you in that matter. Two: You do not question what I do. I'll listen to suggestions and act on them if I agree, but always remember that I know what's best for you. Three: I'm going to be sexual with you. You smell like a virgin, so nothing that would endanger that. But I will get my rocks off."

I sat back. "Is this standard procedure for all your personal clients?"

"No, dear. You see, I can usually control myself on the standard preps, but I'd rupture myself if I tried to hold back working with your mane."

"You said I didn't have any choice in this, and now you're asking me to agree?"

He shrugged. "There's always a choice. Though I might mention," his eyes narrowed. "I'd be very unhappy if you tried to cry off now. And there is a lock on that door."

Good thing I was already sitting down. I don't know, maybe it's because I'd been forewarned, being able to tell which way he slanted right off the bat, but it didn't freak me like that sudden grope by Diana had. I'd still have my maidenhead? Well... He was awful good-looking. And I wondered exactly what sex and a haircut would be like.

"Okay."

He smiled again, came closer, and kissed my cheek. "Thank you, love. I just knew you were a compassionate sort. Now, relax, and let me work my magic."

He went over to a free standing wooden cabinet, and opened it. The inside was lined with hooks. I could see a stunning variety of straps, cords, and chains dangling in profusion. He studied the selection, tapping his chin with one finger. "No, no, no. Hmm. Ah, yes." He reached in and removed something, then came back to the chair.

"Here we are." He displayed several thick, wide straps of black leather. "What do you think, pet?"

"What do I think about what?" I asked nervously.

He made a tisking noise. "Oh, that's right. I forgot Rule Four. You're going to be strapped down."

"Why?"

Again the narrow eyes, and the smile. "Because I like it that way. It will show me that you trust me implicitly. In any case, it can be quite nice for you, too. Feel." He brushed the straps against my cheek. The leather was thin and supple, very smooth. "See? Soft as butter. I use only the best. Now just relax, and let Daddy do what he wants."

As he spoke, he pressed my right wrist against the chair arm, back down, and lashed it there with one of the strips. Now would be the time to do something, but I just watched.

"That's a good girl." He rubbed my forearm in approval, fingers tickling over my inner elbow. Then he repeated the process on my left side. He stood back and studied the effect, then got two more straps and repeated the action, this time strapping my upper arms to the frame. When he was done, I tugged experimentally at the bonds. Not even a fraction of an inch of give, but they didn't pinch.

Again his fingers grazed the inside of my forearm. I shivered. "Yes, I thought I noticed that. I think we've found an erogenous zone." He bent, and began tracing his hands up and down my arms on both sides, barely touching. He leaned down and placed his mouth right in the crook of my right elbow, and began to softly lick and bite the sensitive skin.

My nipples got stiff almost immediately. I'm not kidding you. The guy hadn't even touched anything that would be covered by a bathing suit. What was this? Was I going to have to wear long sleeved shirts for the rest of my life, or risk embarrassing myself in public? He switched sides and worked on the other for a bit. I felt the urge to squirm.

He stood up and smiled at me. "That's a good start. Now, that glorious hair of yours." He put his hands in it again, lifting it, feeling the weight. "I will give you a little say in what I do. How much do you want taken off?" I managed to hold my thumb and forefinger about two inches apart. He frowns in disapproval. "Is that all you want cut off?"

"No. That's about what I want left."

His eyes go wide, and he shudders, hands clenching. "Oh God, I just got hard! Do you really mean it? Don't tease me."

"Yes, I mean it."

Clive leaned over and kissed my forehead. His voice was marveling. "And it isn't even Christmas or my birthday. I must have been very, very good in a previous life."

"So you can do it?"

"Oh, yes, lamb. I can most assuredly do it. Hold on to those chair arms, love. You're going to lose your back support for a bit." He worked a lever, and the seat back lowered. "Just sit tight." He went to the counter again, and returned with a pair of large, shiny barber sheers. He also brought a long cardboard box, which he balanced in my lap.

Then Clive took off his shirt, peeling it up over his head. I didn't bother not to stare. Anyway, with the mirrors, there wasn't anywhere I could have looked and not seen him. All the beer bellied Bubbas I knew back home who sneered at 'fairy hairdressers' would have swallowed their dips of Red Man. Clive wasn't big, but everything he had was taut, hard, and smooth, and my nipples weren't the only ones in the room reacting like it was a cold day with a breeze blowing. He was seriously buff. I congratulated The Powers That Be on having mercy on my sex by not making him gay. I'm of the opinion that all pretty people should be contractually obligated to be at least bi, so the most people possible can have a little hope.

Clive used another lever to lower the chair a little. He put one knee on the seat back, moving up close behind me. "Just lean on me, pet. I'll hold you up safely."

I leaned back gingerly, but Clive was quite solid and sturdy. Ooh, wait a minute... Damn, he was solid. I could watch him in the mirror as he knelt behind me, still caressing my hair. He sighed. "I don't know whether to do it in bits, to make it last, or just grab it into one big bunch and whack it off." He met my eyes in the mirror, and smiled. "Oh, don't worry, dear. I generally favor the long, slow pleasures myself."

He selected a section of hair and stroked it, smoothing it through his fingers. He opened the scissors, then slid the tress between them. I felt the cold steel of the blades kiss my scalp, then he moved them back a bit. He closed the handles slowly. There was an odd purring sound, and I could feel each strand part. Finally he was holding the severed lock in his hand. He bent around me and carefully placed the hair in the box, then started separating another hank of hair.

Again there was the slide of scissors, the tension, the rasp of the sharp edges slicing through the strands, and the feel of release as they parted. Then another handful of hair was carefully placed in the box.

Clive watched his hands as he positioned the scissors. Then, as he began to cut, he would look up and catch my eyes in our reflections as he slowly severed the hair. After the third slice, he gripped my shoulder, and pressed against me. I felt a warm firmness prod my back. I stared at him in the mirror. He didn't say anything, I didn't say anything. He humped against me slowly a few times, then wound another swatch of hair around his hand and started again.

Gradually the weight on my head lessened. The box on my lap filled. Slice. Pump. Snip. Hunch. Weird. But very, very stimulating. Clive might be on the fringe of the fringe, so to speak, but he definitely knew what he liked, and he was good at involving the other party.

Finally all that was left was about three inches of fluff. He stood down, raised the chair arm again, and took the box from my lap. He fondled the contents lovingly for a moment, bringing up a handful to sniff it. I said, "Do I want to know what's going to happen to that?"

His eyes were dreamy. "You probably can guess. But eventually I'm going to braid it into a nice length of rope, and it's going in my personal treasure chest. The one that's only opened for very special friends." He grinned. "Maybe at one of your later sessions you can experience what it's like to be tied up with your own hair."

Okay, I shivered.

He swathed me in a plastic poncho, wrapping a towel around my neck, then turned the chair, and reclined it. This time I went back with the seat, and ended up with my head over a shampoo sink. Clive ran water just the comfortable side of hot and began to shampoo my hair, working up a thick, slithery lather. I sniffed. "No scent?"

"Certainly not. We don't want any artificial odors to interfere with the scent of natural, healthy hair."

"C'mon, Clive, using the inclusive 'we'?"

"All right, I don't. The scent of someone's hair is one of the most erotic, personal things in the world. Talk about your pheromones. I don't like it when it's disguised."

His strong fingers worked my scalp firmly, massaging as well as cleansing. Another bit of information: getting a shampoo can be a very erotic experience. I wondered why I hadn't realized it before, then decided that perhaps Fantastic Sam's and Supercuts were not suited to intimacy. Rinse, condition, rinse. He wrapped my head in a towel and tousled it vigorously, wiping away excess water to leave my hair damp.

I was astonished when the fine toothed comb glided smoothly through my shortened locks, with never a catch or a snarl. Clive lifted a few fast drying strands, and said, "You have a good color, dear. It's not that dead brown. It's dark, but I see some red highlights in here. They should be more pronounced at this length. Now." The shears this time were smaller, lighter, sharper. "We get down to the artistry." He twirled them around his finger, like an old west sharpshooter.

He worked with the comb and scissors. Snip, snap. Measure. Snip again. He explained that he was cutting the back and sides very short, leaving me a little fullness on top. His hands were all over my head, turning it this way and that, tilting or lifting. I obeyed every touch. I never would have thought that a hair styling could be turned into a Dominant/submissive scene, but the complete control he was using...

He used a pair of clippers to clean up and even my neckline. When he put away the clippers, he spent several minutes stroking the back of my neck, feeling the contrast of the smooth skin at the nape, and the tiny prickles of bristles higher up, at the hairline.

Clive knelt in the chair, facing me, straddling my legs, and worked on the front of my hair. He leaned against me, letting me feel his weight. I was getting flushed in the face by now. Tiny, delicate snips, tweezing off fluffs of hair hardly bigger than snowflakes. Why did the term 'tease' come to mind?

I could feel the tension in him, and he was breathing heavily, too. I managed to glance down without moving my head. The leather of his pants was thin, soft, and stretched tight over a massive erection. Damn, that had to be almost painful, constricted like that.

He'd finished snipping, and laid aside the comb and shears. I glanced up at him. "Are we through?"

"Not quite." He put his palms on either side of my head and pulled my face against his belly.

"Uh, Clive. I don't think I'm ready for what you want," I mumbled. I mean, I was turned on, but oral sex for the first time tied to a chair surrounded by all those mirrors? No pressure.

"Of course you aren't," he soothed. "You're not ready to dive in, pardon the expression, head first. That can come later. Right now, I need you to bite me."

"Bite?" I said stupidly.

One hand held the back of my head. The other reached down and found the bulge of his hard-on beneath the leather and began to squeeze and stroke. "Bite. Lick. Kiss. Nibble. Just do it for me, sweetheart."

This I could do. I looked at his ridged abdomen, the shallow cup of his navel, the trickle of light, shiny hair that ran down under his waistband, trying to decide where to start.

My hair might be a lot shorter, but he still managed to get a grip in it. His voice was as soft as that flesh a little south of my chin was hard. "Scribe, precious. Now."

If you don't remember the motto that used to run under the old RCA Victor logo of the dog sitting in front of the Victrola with it's head cocked, look it up. Or maybe I'll have mercy on you and tell you later. Anyway, paraphrase it. I licked Clive's belly right where one of the 'cans' in the six pack started. He shivered, and his hand started to move faster.

Experimentation time. I started doing everything I could imagine with my lips, tongue, and teeth, just staying above the belt. He seemed to really like it when I dipped my tongue into his belly button. I tried to bite, like he's requested, but I was afraid of actually hurting someone like Clive. But I managed to catch him hard enough to leave a bruise just above his hip, and I decided that the shouted, "Oh, goddam!" was approval rather than anger.

He was undulating now, thrusting into his own caresses. I could see in the mirror that a pink flush had risen in his pale cheeks, had in fact spread down his throat. His head was back, eyes closed, and he was gritting his teeth, moaning. "Close, so close. Just a little more..."

Suddenly both hands were in my hair, and I found myself shoved down as he pushed up to meet me. My face ended up pressed against his straining, bulging fly. The hot smell of sex and leather almost made me pass out. "Bite!" When I hesitated, he snarled. "That isn't a request, you cock tease. Bite!"

I bit. I got a mouthful of hot, hard filled leather. Immediately he lunged against me, and I could feel a pulse vibrate through my mouthful. He made a sound like nothing I'd ever heard before. But I could make out the words, "DON'T LET GO! DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE LET GO! Wait, Wait. Wait....."

He bent over me, embracing me, swallowing me in his arms while he heaved and shuddered. At last he went still, just holding me. I dared to spit out what I had clenched in my teeth, and he groaned.

Ohmigawd, why do I go out without my brain? I'm tied down, he has big, sharp scissors at arms reach, and I just bit his cock. I wonder if I'll make the headlines?

Clive sighed. His voice was thick. "It's time's like this that I wish I smoked, because it really does seem to call for a cigarette."

Chapter Fourteen: A Star is Born

Clive climbed down, kissed me thoroughly, and picked up a brush and blowdryer. He finished styling my hair placidly, a peaceful look on his face. "You're not going to put anything in it, are you?" I asked warily.

"If I was going to do that, sweet thing, I would have unzipped." That was a little more than I needed to know. "You don't need any spray or gel. Those curls are coming up nice and crisp. This is what I call my Greek Boy haircut. You'd best stay in the well lighted areas at Green, precious, or you'll give some poor old fairy a hell of a shock when he gropes you. Then again, you might be just right to spark some curiosity."

When he was done, he stood back and ordered me to admire the effect. I did. It was way different from anything I'd ever done before. But, like everything else, it would have passed without comment in my own world. But here...?

The back and sides were only about an inch long, so short that the curls were reduced to waves. On top it was a little longer, and the curls were really running wild. But since it was so much shorter, the effect was controlled chaos instead of out-and-out anarchy. He'd been right about the color. The bright overhead florescents picked out red, even gold, hilights.

"This is great, Clive. It'll go perfect with my new outfit. How much do I owe you?"

"Not a cent, dearest. I couldn't possibly take money from you after what we've shared. It would be too much like prostitution, and I only do this for love and lust. Are you planning on going to LG this evening? I would like to see the reaction to my masterpiece."

"Yeah, come on down. I get to sing with the band. I don't know if it's gonna be a debut, or a farewell performance, but you're welcome."

"Lovely. I'll come early and bring a few friends, if you don't mind? Green's a little conservative for my circle, but I don't want to miss this."

"Terrific."

"Bettina, do stop fluttering about and make another appointment for Scribe. Next Friday, I think. Just a shampoo and condition."

"No, that's all right, Clive."

"Will, say, four be all right?"

"Clive, I hardly think I'll need..."

"And who said this was about what you needed?"

"Oh. Clive?" I smiled, to show I was joking. "What would happen if I went to someone else to have my hair done?"

He smiled back. "Why, treasure, if you want to find out about punishment, all you have to do is ask."

Lois' POV

She isn't home when I get back, but I kind of expected that. She's going through adolescent rebellion at a late age, and I think it's kind of like having your tonsils out: it's worse the longer you wait. There are several empty bags from the department store in her room, and a shoebox so big that it scares me.

Still, I'm determined not to go looking for her. She doesn't want to be scolded and controlled, she wants to be treated as a grown woman. Fine, so be it. I'm not sitting up, waiting for her. I'm reading. I've been planning to get to that hardware catalogue a long time now.

The phone rings, and I can hear commotion on the other end long before I get it up to my ear. I wonder who's having a party, and why I wasn't invited. It sounds wild. "Hello?"

"Terry, get more grapefruit juice out of the back, I got another case in this afternoon. Yeah, and cranberry juice. Damn, who ever thought I'd need..."

"Hello?" What was this, some sort of prank call?

"Hello, sorry. It's crazy here. Lois?"

"Yes?"

"Lois, this is Toddy at Lavender's Green."

There was whooping and howling in the background, and loud, raucous music. "Toddy? I know it's the weekend, but are you having a bachelor party there or something?"

"Not exactly. I think you should come down here. Off the bar! I told you before. And stay off the tables, too. Sorry."

"I don't think I want to come down there if it's that rowdy." I could hear singing in the background. Lots of voices, but there was one familiar one carrying over the others as they chanted "Gonna have to face it, you're addicted to love!" I groaned. "Scribe?"

"Who else? I'm not complaining, mind you. She's cute as hell, the customers like her, and she's really livened the place up. We're packed, and I'm selling booze like prohibition starts up tomorrow. But..."

"She's a grown woman, Toddy." Now, so help me God, they were singing something about 'When I think about you, I touch myself." Did the girl want to spend time at the police station? "Toddy, she's gonna get everyone arrested!"

"I don't think so. The beat cop is boogying up by the band right now."

"Well, the religious leaders will have a field day."

"I don't know 'bout that, either. A Sanctified Army band came in earlier to spread the good news. Now the horn player and tambourine are jamming with the band."

"Then why did you call me?"

"I think maybe you should come get her, she's had a lot to drink."

The crowd was roaring about sisters doing it for themselves. "She sounds like she's doing fine."

"You don't understand, Lois. Diana Prince is here. She's been pushing drinks on Scribe all evening, and... hello? Hello?"

I suppose I should have hung up instead of leaving the receiver dangling, but, well...

I made it to Lavender's Green in record time. You could hear the noise half a block away, and it almost blasted me off my feet when I went in. The band was just striking up a song, something with a strong beat and horns. The Sanctified Army player could wail.

"Here comes the finale folks! Feel free to join in if you catch the words." I squinted toward the dias. Where was she? All I could see was the house band. Tinkerbelle and another waitress were bouncing up and down at a side mike, and some young man was at the center mike. Then the music really kicked in.

"How can it be permissible? She compromised my principles. That kind of love is mythical. She's anything but typical." That voice... I pushed forward for a closer look at the singer.

"She's a craze you'll endorse, she's a powerful force. You're obliged to conform when there's no other course..."

Heavy black engineer boots, rapping on the raised platform with glee. Tight blue jeans. A plaid flannel shirt, long sleeves rolled up on arms that were just a touch too delicate and smooth to carry off the illusion. The collar with two buttons undone, smooth neck gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat. The familiar face, alight with mischief and glee, blue eyes dancing. She wasn't moving like she was drunk. The hair...

The delicate curves of the ears were bare, there was nothing to detract from the clear lines of her face. She looked younger. It was a cap of soft, tight dark curls. It looked... she...

It looked good, damn it. The spotlight was striking red sparks in it. But she might have warned me.

I didn't have much time to ruminate, because they were coming to the chorus. "She used to look good to me, now I find her..." The drummer rapped out four sharp shots. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. And her hips jerked left, right, back, and a strong forward thrust. "Simply irresistible!"

The audience groaned. Then howled. She laughed, and sang. <I""Her lovin' is so powerful. It's simply unavoidable. The trend is irreversible. The woman is invincible. She's a natural law, and she leaves me in awe. She deserves the applause, I surrender the cause. She used to look good to me, but now I find her..."

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Again the hip action. "Simply irresistible. Simply irresistible." Then in counterpart Tinkerbelle and friend crooned. "She's so fine, there's no tellin' where the money went. She's all mine, there's no other way to go." They repeated it a couple of times, and the audience caught the words, pushing them back.

"She's unavoidable and back against the wall. She gives me feelings that I never had before. I'm breakin' promises, she's breakin' every law. She used to look good to me, now I find her simply irresistible." Again her backup singers chirped. "She's so fine..."

They sang the chorus a couple of times. Some guy in leather at the front of the stage caught her attention, and she shimmied in front of him. They danced together, several feet apart.

"Her methods are inscrutable. The proof is irrefutable. She's huggably kissable. Our lives are indivisible. She's a craze you'll endorse, she's a powerful force..."

As the verse repeated, she skipped off the dias, and slithered through the crowd to the bar, hopping up to sit on it's polished surface. When they reached the "She's so fine"part she waved her arms and got the audience singing and clapping in unison. The air was so electric I could feel goose bumps standing up on my arms. This wasn't a smooth, professional performance. There was nothing pitch perfect or precise. She was just having such a good time that it was catching.

On the last line, she braced her arms behind herself, arching, head thrown back, eyes closed, face glistening with sweat, mouth curved in a beatific smile, and crowed. "Simply irresistible!"

The guitarist started another solo vamp. She sat up, grinned, and sang out, "Show's over. Somebody buy me a drink." By the time she'd slid down and settled on a stool, there were a half dozen assorted drinks in front of her, and she cheerfully started sampling them all.

It wasn't easy, but I got up beside her. "Scribe..."

Her grin was charmingly goofy. "Hey, Lois! Didya catch the act, huh? Pretty good for as little time as we had to practice. Whatdaya think?"

"I think it's a good thing you got down off the bar, or someone might have crawled up there and had sex with you."

She stuck out her tongue at me. "Party pooper. I'm perfekly capable of ruining my own life. Excuse me, running."

"You're drunk."

"Yup. Ain't it grand?"

"Yes. I think she's cute like this." Diana Prince had sat down on the other stool.

"Leave her alone, Diana. She's not your type."

"Lois, quit it. You're not my mama. I c'n take care of mself." She turned to Diana and said with drunken solemnity, "Diana, I'm not your type."

"How do you know what my type is, Scribe?"

"Okay. You're not my type."

"What is your type?"

"How should I know? I'm drunk. 'Scuse me. Gotta see a man about a dog." I watched her weave her way back to the restroom, the one loosely designated for females.

I decided to go call a cab. I was going to haul her butt home if I had to get Jimmy to help me. She didn't need to be out in this state.

I don't have any excuse. I should have noticed when Diana followed her into the back.

Chapter Fifteen: Why You Should Be Careful Who You Get Drunk Around

The ladies' room has a line that would have done justice to a ticket seller's window in KISS's heyday. I might be able to bullshit my way to the front, but I've always hated line jumpers. However, the situation is becoming desperate. You only rent alcohol, you don't own it, and it is time to return some to the natural cycle.

I mentally review options. Not a whole hell of a lot. There isn't even a nearby gas station, even if I thought that I could make it that far. I snag Tinkerbelle as she trots past with a tray of drinks. "Tink, is there another comfort facility somewhere around here, maybe employee's? I'm pretty desperate here."

"Sure, Scribe." She points to a dimly seen hallway tucked over in a far corner. "Down to the end and cut a right."

I give her a quick kiss on the cheek which sends her into blushing giggles. "Thank you, lifesaver."

I worm my way through the crowd toward the hall. It's dimly lit. There's a door to the right that leads outside, and another to the left that probably leads to a storage area. At the end, I see that the intersection is like a T. The left side is full of boxes, and the right extends to another little door at the end.

There's no designation on the door so it has to be unisex. I go in, snapping on the light, and am relieved to see that it's small, but clean, and there's a stall around the toilet. That's good, because the outside door is a little warped, and I just can't force the bolt home. I leave it shut, and go in the stall to do my business.

You know, after a trip to the facilities, when you really, really need it, the whole world looks a lot more cheerful. I finish the sanitation process, and am in the process of zipping up my pants when I hear the door scrape open. Someone else has gotten tired of waiting.

I open the door and step out cheerfully. "All done, no waiting."

"You don't know how happy that makes me." Diana Prince shoves the door shut. All the way. It snaps firmly into the warped frame with a grinding thump. That booger is going to take some tugging to get open again.

I blink (yeah, all right, I blink stupidly), and just stand there till the door of the stall swings shut behind me and thumps me in the butt. That makes me jump, and she smiles.

Well, this is awkward. Best thing is to go on as if this isn't a slightly creepy situation. I go to the sink and wash my hands. She just stands there, watching me. I watch her in the mirror as I dry my hands. I jerk my head suggestively toward the empty stall. "All yours, Diana."

She takes one long step that brings her up behind me. Her hands fall on my shoulders, squeezing a little, and she smiles at me in the mirror. "All mine."

I slither out from between her and the sink, the hair rising on the back of my neck. "Gotta go. Lois is waiting for me." I got to the door and tug on the handle. Damn, it is stuck! I'm going to have to really jerk to get it open.

Before I can do that Diana presses up against me from behind, reaches past me, and shoots the bolt, locking the door. I don't know how the fuck she did that, as much as I'd struggled with it before. It would have taken a lot of force. I am suddenly very worried about Amazon strength in comparison to mortal.

I feel hot breath on my neck. "Lois can wait. I can't."

"Oh cripes!" I squirm and manage to slide out. "Okay, joke's over. Lemme out."

She keeps smiling, and starts to unbutton her uniform jacket. She's getting undressed? No, this is not good, not good at all. "You know, Scribe, Lois isn't right for you."

"She isn't? I mean, we're just friends. We're roommates."

"Right, that's just my point. She's got you right there, in the privacy of her own place, and what does she do? Nothing." As she spoke, she was pulling off her belt. No, just a minute, not a belt. It was way too long for that, and it was thin and shiny, almost sparkly.

"I mean to say, it's a fucking waste anyway you look at it. You need to be with someone who's going to appreciate and make use of all you have to offer."

She's forming a loop in the end of... is that some sort of rope? Shit!

"I'm not offering anything. No way, no how, no go."

The smile gets all wolfish and pointy teethed. Well, maybe not the pointy bit, but dammit, you know what I mean. Fucking menacing. "Oh, that's all right, dear. I like it like that."

I back up. "Stay the fuck away from me."

She's dangling a long loop from the end of that spooky rope. "This is going to be so much fun. Steve has been such a submissive little wuss lately, I'm really ready for a challenge. It'll be good to get my hands on some reluctant stuff."

She suddenly jerks her arm, and the loop flies at me.

You'd think a red-neck from Texas would know instinctively how to dodge a lasso, wouldn't you? Apparently being semi-drunk (I'm sobering up fast) doesn't help. The thing settles around me neatly. She jerks her hand back and it tightens, pinning my arms to my sides. I pull back instinctively, tightening it even more.

"Stop this! Let me go right now, Diana. I mean it."

She takes up the slack, hand over hand. "I know you do. That's what makes it so delicious. Don't try to get loose."

I've been trying to force the loop back up over my head. Now my hands drop on their own volition. I try again, but they drop away when they touch the golden lasso, like they're boneless. "What is this?"

"It compels obedience."

"I thought it just compelled truth."

"That too. How many men have you slept with?"

I start to tell her it's none of her business. What comes out is, "None." I would clap my hands over my mouth if I could reach.

She's wound the slack of the rope into a coil, and fastened it to her belt. I flinch when I realize she's doing it to have her hands free. "That's good. How many women have you slept with?"

I bite my lip hard. I think I'm going to draw blood in another second or two, but instead I find myself saying, "None. Damn! Will you stop that! It isn't fair."

"You know what they say about love and war, Scribe. I'm good at both." She leans against me, grabs my head on both sides, and kisses me ferociously.

I find that I can't use my arms or knees to push her away. When I try any other way, I just end up leaning into the kiss, and that isn't what I want at all. I keep my lips pressed resolutely shut, despite insistent probing.

When she draws back, I turn my head to avoid another assault. "Stop it! I don't want you to touch me, Diana."

"Too bad. You shouldn't have been such a clit-tease, Scribe." She's unbuttoning my shirt. "You can't flirt around like that and expect to just turn off the responses." Her hand slides through the gap, slides inside my bra, and pinches rudely. "I've been thinking about you for a couple of days now, getting hotter all the time."

"But I didn't mean anything! It was just joking around. Jesus, can't you people take a joke?"

"I can take you." She shoves the other hand down the front of my pants, and I go up on tiptoe. "Think I can't? I could order you to do anything with this rope around you, and you wouldn't have any choice. I'll tell you the truth, though. I like a fight."

She digs with her fingers, and I yelp with pain and humiliation. "Just relax, why don't you? I'm not going to hurt you. Much." She takes her hand out of my shirt and unfastens my jeans. "Need a little more room here to do this right."

Okay, I'm going to be able to talk my way out of this situation, so I scream.

"Help! Fire!"

She laughes. Talk about feeling stupid, but this is what the freakin' articles recommend. When she gets her hand inside my panties, I really start raising a ruckus.

"Help! Stop that." I try to squirm my way back through the wall, away from those rough, probing fingers.

There's a pounding on the door. "Open up!" I almost wilt with relief. Lois.

"Fuck off, Nellie Bly." Diana calls. "You had your chance. We're busy."

"Lois, get me out of here! I'll be good, I swear!"

"You'll be good," Diana hisses. She jerks her hand, hard.

Ow. I really don't want to think about that right now. Or ever. I mean, Superman had groped me some, but he was gentle, and almost... well, respectful. This is abrupt, and hard, and it hurts. My knees go weak, but she holds me up against the wall with her own body, and that awful hand, pinning me.

I don't know what kind of sound I make. But there's was a babble of voices out in the hall, and suddenly the door just kind of explodes in. It hits the inside wall so hard that it comes loose on it's hinges and sticks before it can swing back closed.

In that frozen instant between the sound and Diana's next painful shove into my body, I catch a glimpse of Jimmy and Clive, side by side in the doorway, their feet just lowering from kicking in the door. Then Diana pushs again, biting me on the neck, and I howl.

Suddenly the tiny room is full of people. Clive grabs Diana by her hair (naturally) and rips her away from me. That brings a fresh yelp of pain, because the removal hurts just as much as the entrance did. That really seems to piss Clive off. And I was right, Clive isn't someone you want to piss off.

Jimmy grabs the golden lasso, jerking it off Diana's belt, and moves to unloop me. The second the rope is off me, I collapse to the floor. Shock, post traumatic stress syndrome, I don't know what all, but I pass out for a second.

It isn't long, but I must have missed some interesting stuff. I come to with Lois holding my head in her lap, sprinkling cold water on my face. I murmur, "Don't say it. I know, I asked for it."

She looks like she wants to cry. "No, Scribe." She kisses my forehead. "No one asks for that."

Someone has draped a jacket over me. I reach under it and close my pants up, wincing with each movement. Then I re-button my shirt, or try to. My hands are shaking too badly to be of much use. After a moment, Lois does it for me. Then I sit up and look around.

Jimmy squats nearby, pale and concerned. "You need an ambulance, sweety?"

"No, I don't think so. I... I don't think I'm bleeding, or anything."

"Not from lack of this bitch trying," I look toward the growl.

Clive is holding Diana by the scruff of the neck. They both look the worse for wear. Clive has a cut lip, and some nasty looking scratches on his neck. Diana is disheveled, and sported a dark bruise on one cheek. She is also thoroughly trussed up with her own rope. And she is wearing a ball gag. I guess Clive always travels prepared.

She glares at Clive venomously. He shakes her again, hard. "What have we told you, Diana? You ask the toys nicely before you play with them. That was totally uncalled for. Any fool could tell she's not ready for rough stuff. Scribe, precious, do you want us to call the police?"

I can feel my temperature dropping at the thought. Explain this to a succession of cops? But how can I let that woman get away with it, especially when it seemed that she might do the same thing again, and the next victim might not have a cavalry to ride to the rescue.

Seeing my indecision, Lois says gently. "It's all right, Scribe. We can take care of this privately. Superman knows where this witch truly belongs. She was only supposed to stay here till the last war was over, anyway. Her mother will be happy to have her back on the island. Though Diana may not like the punishment her mom will come up with once she learns what her little girl has been up to, especially since she's been giving Amazons a bad name. Clive, can you just hang on to her for a few hours?"

"Certainly. I have the perfect little dungeon just a few blocks away." He hands Jimmy a card, who passes it to Lois. "Scribe, darling, you just concentrate on feeling better. We're going to handle this for you." He jerks the rope, causing the glaring Diana to stumble. "Come on, you rapacious slut. I have a very interesting chair for you to try out for the next few hours. I think you'll be glad to go home by the time Superman comes for you." He smiles at me. "And no, pet, I'm not going to be enjoying this. Not like that."

He drags her out, and Lois and Jimmy help me to my feet. "I need a bath," I muttered. "I really, really need a bath."

"Can you walk?" Jimmy asks. I take an experimental step. I'm pretty wobbly. "We'll help. There's an exit just down here, and I had Toddy get a cab. C'mon Scribe, just a few steps."

They assist me partway down the corridor, to an exit door I hadn't seen in the dark. Outside the air is crisp and cold, and it makes me feel a little more sane. They bundle me into the cab, sitting on either side, and we start off.

I drop my head on Jimmy's shoulder. "Thank you," I whisper.

He strokes my hair gently. "I'm just sorry we weren't sooner. But we didn't know where you went. Bettina said her sister had told you where the employees' can was. Then Clive remembered that he saw Diana going back there, too, and we decided we'd better check things out. That Clive's a pretty cool dude. He's the only hairdresser I know that I'm not surprised they can kick down a door. Damn, I'm glad he ain't mad at me."

I start crying. Jimmy and Lois both put their arms around me, and I just blubber. "I feel so stupid." I wail.

"Not really stupid, Scribe," Lois soothes. "You're just so fucking innocent about some things. And the way you talk, and show off, people don't realize that."

They hold me and rock me and pet me all the way back to the apartment. By the time we get there, I've quieted to sniffles and hiccups, and they are both a little damp.

Upstairs, Lois gets what looks like an oversized flashlight and rigs it up out on the balcony. When she switched it on, it throws a circle of light on a cloud, with a large 'S' superimposed on it. I try to remember if this was part of the comics universe I used to read about, but right then I'm frankly too scrambled and stressed to think about it.

Chapter Sixteen: Aftermath

While Lois is setting up the beacon (yeah, that's what it is. Apparently in this universe it isn't only ol' Batsy who has a signal), I head toward the bathroom. I drag off my boots, struggling and swearing at the laces. I heave them. Lois loses a vase, and Jimmy barely escapes a concussion.

"Uh, Scribe, kiddo, whatcha up to?" Jimmy peers into the bathroom nervously.

I peel off my socks. "I need bleach, Jimmy. Lye soap, wire scrub brushes, industrial cleaners, maybe ammonia."

"Scribe."

"You don't have it, I can't use you." I bang the door shut and rip my clothes off. My skin feels like it's about to crawl off my body. I turn on the shower, and in a moment it's billowing steam. I step in, yelping at the temperature. Not hot enough. I try shutting off all the cold. It gets a little hotter, but the flow isn't as strong as I'd like.

I'd find a bar of pumice soap on the sink. All those carbon stains Lois had to deal with. I try it with a washcloth first, but it doesn't work up that much lather.

There's a tapping on the door. I hear Lois' voice. "Scribe? Scribe, open the door."

"Go away. Busy." I yell.

The water stings. I'm starting to flush all over, like a full body blush. I drop the cloth and rub the bar hard on my arms, face, hair *forgive me, Clive. I scrub it over my breasts and down between my legs, feeling the grit of the abrasives embedded in the soap. Not enough, still dirty. I start clawing at my skin, trying to strip away the filth.

The only reason I know that I'm crying is because my nose has started to run. With the rapidly cooling water falling on my face, I don't really notice the tears. I notice the little nail brush on the shower shelf, though. How had I missed this? I grab it joyfully and start on my arms, scouring as hard as I can.

I hear the door rattle, and ignore it, moving to my legs. The bristles sting the pink skin, and I think *Good! I can feel it coming off. A little more. Maybe blood, I hear blood is cleansing...

There's a thump, not as loud as it was at Lavender's Green. Then again, Lois' bathroom door is merely locked, not jammed. I hear them gasping. Must be the steam. It's rolling out now, dissipating here in the shower stall. *Wasn't nearly enough to start with. Damn water heating systems haven't caught up with my world at all. I could have cooked myself back home. Can hardly work up a decent scald without heating the water on the stove here.*

Jimmy's voice, worried. "Shit, what's she doing?"

"Oh, damn, I think I know. Jimmy, get me a sheet off my bed." I hear him leave, and footsteps approach. I scrub my neck and shoulders frantically. Lois slides open the doors just a little, reaches in, and shuts off the water.

I reach to try to turn it on again, and she catches my hand. "That's enough."

I try to be reasonable. "No, Lois, really it isn't. I'll be okay in a little while." I shove the brush against the place that has been the most dirtied, and scrub viciously. "I--just--have--to--get--clean." The pain is making my knees go weak, it must be working, right?

She opens the door more, looking in at me. I see the horror on her face, and drop the brush. It tints the tiles pink when it bounces. Oh, yes, I must be a real mess to get that look on her face. "Turn the water back on and give me another minute, and I'll get clean..."

Jimmy comes back in with the sheet, and he turns pale. Great, is it really that obvious? Maybe I should have gone with a bath, water heated on the stove...

Lois takes the sheet and wraps it around me, then they both help me out of the shower. My body is radiating heat, I can't keep any for myself, and my teeth start to chatter. "Let me get back in," I plead. "Maybe it'll be hot again by now."

"Scribe, hush, please. Oh, God. Help me get her in the bedroom, Jimmy."

Protesting all the way, they lead me into Lois' room and urge me down on the big bed. I roll up into a ball, cocooning myself in the fresh smelling sheet, shivering. I hear them whispering, and I hear the word 'doctor'. "No doctor!" I shout. "I'm fine. Just... just need to get clean."

I feel a hand on my back. That's one area I couldn't reach, so it's relatively pain free. "How about a nurse, Scribe? One of my neighbors is a nurse, and she has a first aid kit."

"Maybe later. Not now. Okay? I just need to lay here a little while, okay?"

They whisper a little more. Then the bed sinks on one side, and I feel Lois tugging at the sheet. "C'mon, Scribe. You'll suffocate."

"No, really. Fine. Don't need to. Oxygen's vastly overrated."

She uncovers my face, ruffles my hair. Jimmy comes back in with a small glass of something amber colored and hands it to Lois. She offers it to me. "Drink this."

I sniff, and shake my head. "Uh uh. That's what got me into this."

"No, it isn't. It was one nasty Amazon bitch that got you into this. I'm afraid you're going to go into shock, and I want you to drink this."

"Medical reports in my universe advise against giving anything liquid by mouth when the victim is going into shock. You trying to kill me?"

"We aren't in your universe, are we? Help me, Jimmy." They move me till I'm still balled up, but my back and head are resting against Jimmy's chest, and his arms are around me. Lois tips the glass to my lips, and I swallow numbly. I've never liked straight alcohol, but I manage to keep it down. What's one more ache or burn?

Maybe it helps a little. I don't shake as much. I mutter, "Jimmy, you should let go. You're gonna get filthy."

"Stop it." He puts his face against my neck, his arms tightening. "Just stop it, okay? God, I wish we'd let Clive kill the bitch."

"No, Jimmy. Then she'd feel guilty. You know that."

"I'm right here, you know," I say quietly. Then I giggle, and giggle again, and I keep giggling till it turns into tears. I gasp, "Ooh, I am so fucking ridiculous. I go forty-something years without committing myself sexually, then get molested by a butch Amazon in the bathroom of a gay club in a comic book universe. Somebody out there is laughing their ass off at my expense, and it's pissing me off!"

That little outburst is apparently some sort of catharsis, because I either fall asleep, or go unconscious, I'm not sure which.

In any case, I wake up later. I'm stretched out on the bed, covered by another sheet. I'm still naked, and it's a good thing, too, because I'm starting to feel the damage I did to myself. It's like I'm sunburned over most of my body, and there are raw feeling patches everywhere. I've been slathered in some sort of cool, minty smelling ointment that I believe is helping immensely. There's a little pill bottle on the night stand. I seem to recall a couple of little blue tablets. That may account for the calmness I feel right now.

Jimmy, jacket, shirt, and shoes off, is stretched out on one side of me. Lois, in a pair of striped pajamas, is stretched out on the other. I'm corralled between them. I look back and forth between them. Such good friends. And what I've done... No, what happened to me... It doesn't disgust them. They're worried about me. Concerned. It's so sweet.

I feel the urge to cuddle someone. Even though my whole body feels raw, I want to be hugged. But who?

Lois turns over in her sleep. She's lying on her right side, and her left leg and arm hook over me casually. I shift carefully, turning my back to her, so that she's almost spooned up against me, the sheet between us. Now I'm lying facing Jimmy.

I examine the bright red hair, the pale skin, the impishly handsome face. I reach out timidly, and touch his stomach. He blinks awake, and looks over at me questioningly. He whispers, "Scribe? You better now?"

"Yeah. But I'm still cold."

"I'll get a blanket."

"No." I tug lightly at his arm. "Please?"

His eyes soften in understanding, and he slides closer. He slides one arm under my head, puts the other around me, and moves up against me. I feel solid, living heat from both sides. The warm breath of people who care about me tickles my neck, and cheek. Jimmy drops a small kiss on my forehead, and whispers, "Go back to sleep. You need it."

"Okay." This time it's a normal, though deep sleep. I need it, because in the morning I'm going to have to start really dealing with what happened.

Chapter Seventeen: White Void, Blue Serenity, and the Beginning of Sexual Exploration

The sun is high when I wake up again, streaming through the bedroom window. And I'm alone. I just lie there for I don't know how long, staring at the ceiling. I'm not thinking of anything in particular. Hell, I'm not thinking of anything, and that's not normal. I've never been one of those Zen type people who can wipe their mind. I'm always chewing on something, mentally, no matter how small. It may just be... hell, the difference in how Americans and English pronounce 'aluminum' ah-lue-min-uhm as opposed to al-lue-min-ee-um, but there's always something that could pass for thought rolling around up there. Not now.

It's like the inside of my skull has been emptied, and whitewashed. Like those seamless snowy indoor expanses in that old George Lucas flick, THX something. Pre Star Wars. You never could tell where the other side of the room was. It could have been a mile away, or just beyond your fingertips. You never really knew till you walked into it headfirst.

I stare up at the ceiling and watch it dip and drift, closer then farther. I feel the whole world falling away, till I'm the only solid thing in it. Nothing else exists. I kick off the sheet, because it's weight, tying me down to the solid world.

I can feel. That's the problem. I can feel. I shouldn't. There should be some way to stop that.

And suddenly there's one tiny speck of color at the periphery of the blinding, soothing white. Blue. Cool blue. I must turn my head, because the color, just a smear before, focuses, coalesces.

A little bottle. The bottle is clear, but the contents are blue. I find that I can move. I reach for the blue, my arm drifting across the infinite space, slow as the spin on a constellation.

I feel again. My fingertips brush smooth plastic. A little work, and they wind around the small, solid object, and I possess it, draw it closer.

I examine it, turn it, seeing the small, round, blue disks that tumble inside. There is writing on the outside, which I scan, but do not absorb. Something about supervision, interaction, limitations... Nonsense.

I know what's inside the bottle, I can tell. It's peace, numbness, absence. Just what I need to wipe out that final bit of feeling, because my whole body has started to throb and burn, and I can't keep things white and clean much longer. Already I think I see a dinginess creeping into the corners.

The worst thing is the voice. I know I'm not really hearing it, not with my physical self. But it's there, nonetheless, whispering. *All mine. You'll be good, won't you?... tease... I like a fight... Other things, all meaning the same. More pain, more dirt. I need something to make it be quiet, and this...

My hands are slow and clumsy, but I manage to get the top off, shake the bottle. Cool blue spills into my palm. Oh, yes, blue for serenity. Just make the voice and the dark go away for a little while, sweet blue. I raise my hand to my mouth, closing my eyes, seeing white instead of dark.

I hear... something... Then there is noise, and light, and color all at once. Someone has an iron grip on my wrist, and the skin, raw from the nailbrush, screams. The blue serenity spills, scatters over sheets that are twisted, and smell of medicine.

"How many did you take?" It's a man's voice. I try to turn away, reaching for the blue dots scattered around my knees. My other wrist is taken, and I hiss at the sting. Both of my hands are pressed together, held together with one big hand. I am pressed back onto the mattress, the sheet covers me again, and another large, warm hand pats my face gently. "How many, Scribe?"

"Not nearly fucking enough." My hands are still pinned, but I feel sweeping motions at my side. Then there is the tick... tick... tick... of pills being dropped back into a bottle, patiently counted. Grudgingly I say, "None, all right? But why don't you just go back where you came from and we'll change all that, hm?"

No response. Only the steady tick of pills being dropped back into the bottle. I give up on recapturing the near perfect emptiness, and slit my eyes open, letting in the world.

I study the large, dark haired man in horn rims who is trickling the pills back into the bottle with one hand, while keeping my wrists pinned with the other. "Hi, Clark."

"Good morning, Scribe." His voice is level. "Twenty-eight, and the bottle holds thirty. That's about right." He caps it one handed, and puts it in his pocket. "Why did you have all of those poured out?"

"I was trying to pick just exactly the right one to take. Or two. Or three. I just couldn't decide, they were all so pretty. Why don't you let me see them again? I'm sure I could make up my mind this time."

"No, I don't think so."

"Where's Jimmy and Lois?"

"At work. I have some personal time coming, so I volunteered to stay with you. They've both called, to check."

"I don't need a babysitter." "You just tried to swallow a handful of strong tranquilizers."

I just stare at him. Finally I say. "Maybe you should let go of me. Someone coming in and seeing this might get the wrong idea."

"I'm not sure I should after what you just tried. In fact I'm not sure you shouldn't be in a hospital right now."

"Clark, you know what happened? They told you?" He nods, gravely. "You know what Diana Prince did, the rope?" Again he nods, and his eyes are hard. "Clark, if you put me in a hospital, I'm going to freak out. I freak out, they're going to want to sedate and restrain me. That means straps. They restrain me, and I promise you, I will go nuts, and I might not be able to come back. I wasn’t trying to kill myself, not...not really. I just wanted everything to go away for awhile. You know?"

His grip shifts. He pulls down, till my hands are in my lap, and he's not binding my wrists, he's just holding my hands. "All right. You have to promise not to hurt yourself any more."

"Okay." I wince a little. "I'll just sit back and enjoy what I've already done. Hooo. You know, it's a good thing that this dimension has crappy hot water heaters. Back home I'd be in a burns unit right now, I think."

"You were pretty mean to yourself."

"I don't know why I'm not screaming right now, come to think of it."

"It's the medicine. Superman mixed up a special formula. It can't be mass produced, but with a DNA sample, he can concoct super healing cream that soothes and will repair damage in a day or so that would normally take weeks."

"How'd he get the DNA sample?"

He blushes a little. "The brush..."

I have a mental image of the pink stain on the white tiles when I dropped it, and flinch. "Yeah, okay. I see that. Thank you."

"I'm sure he was happy to..."

"Thank you."

"I'll tell him."

"Clark... Kal El? Thank you." He goes very still, staring at me. I sigh. "I must still be a little doped up. I wasn't going to say that."

"You know...don't you?" He's very quiet.

"Um, yeah. I do. I told you before that there were things that were known where I come from. This is one of them. Don't worry, it stays right here." I pull one hand free and make a zipping motion over my mouth.

He makes a gusty sigh, and rubs his face. "It's actually kind of a relief. So there's at least one person around here I can be myself with." He smiles ruefully. "Whoever that happens to be."

I solemnly pat my chest and intone. "My brother. Welcome to the land of confusion. Not knowing who you really are is a bitch, ain't it?"

"Yes, it is. Do you want some breakfast?"

I shake my head. "Not right now, maybe later."

"Want to go back to sleep?"

"No, had enough of that. The white might come back. Sit with me for awhile?"

"Of course." He arranges the pillows so that I'm propped up, and scoots up to sit next to me. I slip up under his arm, and drop my head down on his chest. If you can't feel safe with Superman, who can you feel safe with?

"Where is she?"

"Are you sure you want to talk about this?"

"Not really, but I think I'd better. It's too easy to shove it into a corner. Problem is that it's just going to sit there, ready to bite when I get too close."

"She's back on the island of the Amazons, in her mother Hippolyta's custody."

My fingers curl in his shirtfront, and I say, "You mean that her family is deciding her punishment?"

"You don't understand, Scribe. Hippolyta may be Diana's mother, but she's also the queen. She has a duty to the entire Amazon race. Diana disgraced them all, and committed a horrendous violation of their laws and principals. If anything, her family status is a mark against her. I brought along your friend, Clive, and he gave a most... vivid account of what happened. I've never seen a woman's expression so grim. Diana was in chains, on her way to a cell when I left the island."

"Good."

He touched my hair softly. "Did she hurt you very much?"

I sigh. "It wasn't pleasant. I think maybe I hurt myself worse, after."

He winces. "Why did you do that to yourself?"

"I was trying to scrape her off me. And how do you know what I did?"

He blushes a little. "Well, the ointment... Lois had already gone to work. I thought it would be best to go ahead and treat you, start the healing process."

"It's working pretty good. I think I'm just down to minor irritation instead of major agony. Thanks again."

"Least I could do."

"How gross am I?"

"Scribe."

"Well, I'm scalded, and scraped. I must look like I was dragged behind a slow moving car."

"You've got pink patches, but they're fading."

I peek under the sheet. Sure enough, large pink patches of tender, new skin. I touch a patch on my belly experimentally, and shiver. Very sensitive.

I notice that he is watching me, and look back at him thoughtfully. I reach up and pull off his glasses, tossing them lightly on the table. "Why, Mr. Kent. You're beautiful without your glasses."

"Scribe, why did you do that?"

"So I wouldn't mash either of our noses when I did this." I hook an arm up around his neck, pull myself up, and kiss him.

It’s kind of a medium kiss. Not very light, but not hard and demanding, either. When I pull away at the end, his lips nip lightly at mine. He says quietly, "Do you know what you're doing?"

I get the other arm around his neck and sort of hang there. "No. Why should now be any different from any other moment in my life?" I pull, drawing his head down while I raise myself up, and kiss him again. I keep pushing forward, moving my mouth on his. I don't know what the hell I’m doing, but it feels good, and he doesn't seem to mind.

His mouth openes, kind of like Lois' had, and I slide my tongue over to say hello. I receive greetings right back. I feel his hands cup the back of my head, massaging my scalp lightly. That feels good. I make a muffled sound that means basically, "Okay, more of this." and start sucking and licking.

After a couple of wet, messy, very nice moments, he pulles away and says hoarsely, "Where is this going?"

"Gah, I don't know. The moon?" He groans. "Sorry, yeah, ought to have a plan of action before action. I'm not... I want... I can't... not yet... but... I like you. A lot. I think you like me. I mean, not just bodywise."

He groans again, but smiles. "Not just that." he agrees. "But it includes that. A lot."

"And after that witch... I really feel like I'd like to wipe the feel of that away with what it would be like for someone I really like, who cared about me, to touch me. Some. But no... uh... you know."

"Can we just touch each other?"

"How about if I keep this sheet wrapped around me? Would that be okay?"

"I think it would be sexy as hell."

"Good. How 'bout laying down then."

"Just a second." He kicks off shoes and socks, then stretches out beside me.

I start unbuttoning his shirt. "I'm glad you did away with the tie. I don't really know how to work them."

"You do okay with buttons."

"Buttons and I are old friends. Buttons are simple and straightforward, if occasionally slippery." By the time I finish speaking, I have his shirt open. "And I'd forgotten how most men wore undershirts back in the fifties."

He starts to sit up. "I can take this off..."

"Not necessary at present. Nice and stretchy." To demonstrate, I push it up, exposing a smooth expanse of chest. "By the way, where's the uniform?"

"Hm?" I have my nose snuggled right between his pectorals. "Oh, uh, folded up in my pocket. Super compression."

"Sort of like origami, huh?" I spot a flat nipple to my left, and touch it experimentally.

"I suppose. Would you do that again, please?" Obligingly I slide my palm over it, and feel it start to stiffen. This is interesting. I mean, I know in theory how sex works... But it’s fascinating to see that I can cause physical reactions.

I check, and the nipple is standing up in a little nub. I slant a glance up at him, cautious to see that this is all right. He’s holding very still, face intent, and I realize that he’s trying not to scare me away. That’s so sweet. I decide to reward him, and satisfy my own curiosity.

I shift myself till I’m half lying across him, resting my chin on his chest and draping my upper torso across his abdomen. I gently rub the right nipple till it’s also taut and firm. Then I lean over and lick it.

I have to hang on quickly, because he gives a gasp and heaves. "Are you maybe a little sensitive here, Kal?"

"I guess so, but please don't stop."

"Okay, just don't, like, throw me through the ceiling, or anything."

"Don't worry. I've heard the jokes, and it doesn't work that way. My bodily functions are withing normal mortal standards unless I consciously choose to extend them."

"You don't know what a comfort that is." This time I give him a teeny nip, and he groans again, but doesn't jerk so hard. I lick him in apology for the brief pain, and turn my attention to the other side.

This is fun. Of course, I've never in my life explored another person's body. It’s fascinating to compare the differences in texture from my own. And the responses. I can make him arch and groan just with my fingers and mouth, a big, strong guy like him. *Wow. I haven't even gotten to the real naughty bits yet. Speaking of which, though...*

I scoot over him, dragging the sheet between us, staying wrapped in it. I don't worry about being too heavy, because... because... Well, dammit, he's Superman, right? Don't have to worry about pushing the breath out of this dude. And I guess it's all right, because he makes this kind of pleased sound, and puts his arms around me, then draws me up where he can kiss me again.

After a moment I pull away from his mouth and murmur, "You've been drinking orange juice."

He flushes. "In the kitchen. Do you want some?"

I act like I'm thinking, and roll my eyes. "Maybe later. Silly."

"You're the one that brought it up."

I arch my eyebrows, give him my best smirk, and say, "You know, that statement can be interpreted several ways." Then I move my sheet covered thigh between his legs and slide it back and forth. He bites his lip, closes his eyes, and pushes his head back into the pillow.

"Oooh, I think that works." I croon. "Maybe with a little fewer obstructions?" I slide back down and do a fairly complex maneuver that ends up with my straddling his upper legs. I have to tuck one end of the sheet over my shoulder to keep it from sliding down, but I manage.

Then I reach up and tickle his abdomen, stretched out flat. I crawl my fingers back up his torso, giving the two little buds another affectionate rub, then slide the fingers back down to pluck at the thin line of black hair running down under his waistband before settling on his belt and starting to unfasten the buckle.

His breath has speeded up. Once I get the belt undone, I pause, and study the fly. I put my hands over it lightly, and just hold them there. I can feel his legs tensing under me. He stays still for a long moment, then he lifts his hips, pressing his crotch up into my hands. I feel a warm, firm bulge. "Hey, big guy," I say softly. "Whatcha got there?"

"Why don't you find out?" His voice is a little hoarse.

"Scribe, girl explorer." I mutter, reaching for the zipper. "You know, I've seen magazines, and videos, but you're going to be the first man I see really up close and personal. Did you just get bigger?"

"Entirely possible, with you talking like that. For heaven's sake, don't stop now."

"As if. I mean, I'm doing this deliberately, I'm not mean enough to just...quit." I'm dragging down the zipper slowly. "Mm, that almost sounds like a purr, doesn't it?"

"Huh? It made a noise?"

"Well, I'd think with your super heating..."

"Scribe, please..."

"Ssh. A great mystery is about to be answered. Does Superman wear boxers or briefs? And the answer is... Whoops." I look up in surprise. "He goes commando. Makes sense. You would have such an undies line under that outfit."

"Scriiiiibe..."

"Just a second. Lift your yummy butt up for a minute, 'kay?" I skin down the pants, managing to move them down to his knees without losing my position. Then he kicks wildly to get them the rest of the way off, and I just hang on, giggling, like it's a mechanical bull ride, and I'm Debra Winger.

"It's good to hear that, but am I that funny?" There's a tinge of reproof mixed with the good humor.

"Nope. It's just the very idea that I'd ever have the nerve to do something like this. And..." I reach out and gently touch the thick, hard erection that is nestled in the blue back curls at his groin. "...especially the fact that I could cause that kind of a response. Did I really do that?"

"Yesss. And please do some more. You're making me crazy."

I nod. "Yes, that's normal. I do make people crazy on a regular basis."

I tilt my head, studying him, figuring out what to do next. I mean, we're down to the real thing here. That's a penis. And a fine example, too, I must say. At least from my admittedly limited experience. But then I'd been looking at video versions for quite a while, and Clark/Superman/Kal El had absolutely nothing to worry about in that department.

Funny the details you notice. He’s circumcised, and I think briefly that they must have had a Bris or something before he was launched from Krypton, because they sure as hell couldn't have done it on Earth. Imagine the reaction if they'd tried, and the scalpel had just... I don't know... gone blunt?

Anyway, I'm surprised at how pretty it is. I mean, I never got into all that 'phallic object' shit in modern art. But... okay, I'll be gushy. This is a work of art in flesh. All pale and deep pink, with a faint, faint tracing here and there of blue veins. I mean... you know how some things are so pretty, you're afraid to touch them? But if I don't, we’re both going to be awful frustrated.

So, I just sort of graze the length with my fingertips. It twitches a little. I swear, I'm not making this up. Like it’s a little (okay, not so little) separate, live thing. And Clark makes a noise, way back in his throat that gives me a very nice shiver.

I get braver, and try to fit a hand around it. Don't quite make it. I blink. *Oh, yeah, definitely the sheet stays in place. Maybe some day, but the first time? Uh uh.*

I add my other hand, getting a gentle, but firm grip. He immediately thrusts up. When his hips fall back, my hands slid up the shaft to the top, stopping just behind the head.

It’s a deep rose pink. The shape... I don't know. Sort of a solid... Raspberry beret, like Prince sang about, okay? Closest I can come without drawing you a picture, and I've never been much of an artist with lines and color. And it’s slick and shiny, clear fluid oozing from the tiny little slit in the tip.

I slide my fingers over the surface, spreading the liquid, and he pounds his fists against the mattress.

"I'm sorry. Should I stop that?"

"No. Dammit. Sorry, no, please don't stop. You can do that forever if you want to."

So I do it some more, working my way down a little at a time till the entire length is wet and gleaming. I find that this makes my hand slide much more easily. Then I wrap him in both hands again and start to stroke, very slowly.

Then I decide that I have to investigate the pouch hanging down there between his thighs. I remember the pleased response back in the alley, but I'm not ready to abandon tenderness. I let one hand creep down and gather, and gently feel the roll and play of the solid testicles inside. After all, if I'm ever gonna do this with an 'ordinary mortal' (and I expect I will, somewhere down the line) it would be best if I knew how to fondle without causing injury that requires 911.

"Oh, damn." He half rises, reaching for me, then drops back, and I suddenly realize what's going on. He's afraid that, if he touches me, he'll hurt me. Not the super strength thing, he's already made it clear he can control that. But after what I've been through, he's afraid that normal touch will be...uncomfortable, if not painful. Is the man a pussycat, or what? I've just found out that consideration turns me on. I'm gonna have to be reeeal nice to him.

I crawl up him, reaching between us to position his erection flat. I drop my knees on either side of him for maximum contact, but don't take any of my weight off his body. If we were actually going to 'do the deed', I'd need to raise up some, but this is perfect for what I have in mind.

Again I rest my chin on his chest. I gaze at him, smile sweetly, and start to rock my hips. He's frozen for a moment. Then he starts to push up to meet me.

You know... I wasn't really expecting to get very turned on. I was more or less doing this to confirm that I could make someone I genuinely liked happy this way. I didn't expect to get wet, like I have. Especially after what happened last night.

But this isn't anything like what happened last night. This is my decision. I know that if I want to stop, it will stop. I'm being treated with respect, appreciation, and even affection. I'm liking it a lot. It must be a hell of a lot better if you do it bare skinned, but I'm not quite ready for that.

Anyway, according to what I've heard from just about everyone, most people don't just leap into intercourse, anyway. A 'dry hump' seems to be a perfectly acceptable way of starting sexual exploration. Maybe I'm a little old for it by my world's standards, but what the hell. Since when have I ever lived my life to someone else's time table?

I decide that it would be very interesting to see what would happen... I bite his chin lightly and say, "Kal? I really didn't do much damage to my ass, if you're interested? Hm?"

No response, except for ragged breathing. He seems to be preoccupied. So I reach down and find his hands, then draw them up and back and settle them on my buttocks.

He blinks, and focuses on me, puzzled. I push back into his hands, then slide forward again. He gets the idea. His hands tighten firmly, and he pulls me down tight and begins to thrust up steadily.

I gasp and bite my lip. The harder pressure is hitting a very good place. I squirm a little, adding a twist to the motion that seems to sort of open me up, just a little, and new territories feel the hot friction.

I put my hands on his arms, because I've got to hold on to something. I'm feeling a half familiar heaviness in my groin, and know that the tissues have become blood engorged with arousal. Heat is radiating through me in liquid waves.

His hands flex, and I feel even more open, vulnerable, but I'm not afraid this time. The hot, hard tip of his cock slides against my clitoris, and the sensation, even through the sheet, makes me buck wildly. I find myself making a sound exactly like my Siamese cat used to make when she was in heat, and I wouldn't allow her out of the house. I'm suddenly feeling a lot more sympathy for that cat.

He hangs on tight and pulls me down almost roughly, shoving his hips up, again, and again. Each time hitting that special spot. And I go crazy. I whimper and moan and babble. I speak in tongues. I'm helpless to do anything but ride.

I've had orgasms before, okay? At least I thought I had. This one felt like... I don't know how to describe it. My body just kind of told my mind, "Thank you, you're not necessary right now. Go away for awhile, we'll let you know when we need you."

The first thing I'm aware of is that I've been tumbled back onto the bed. I've lost that lovely, solid heat between my legs, and my body is saying, "Hey! Wait a minute, damn it. That was nice, but isn't there supposed to be more?"

And Clark has drawn my hands back to his throbbing erection. The moment I touch him, he cries out, and my hands are suddenly covered in gobs of slightly sticky, very warm semen. I'm almost disappointed, then realize that he moved me before he came. There might have been no penetration, and some very damp cloth between us, but nature is a very peculiar thing. He was making sure I didn't accidentally get pregnant. Imagine, a guy who can consider that while he has a raging hard on. I didn't think they existed.

In any case, he recovers his breath first (big surprise, right?), and checks to see that I'm okay. "Scribe? You're kind of quiet there."

"I'm just wondering."

"About what?"

"About how amazing it is that civilization has progressed to the point it has."

"Oh. Um, unusual train of thought."

I stretch. "Not really. I'm wondering how, if sex can get any better than that, how anyone ever had the energy or time to get out and invent stuff like the wheel."

Chapter Eighteen: Afterglow

He can cook, too. While I take a shower (lukewarm, this time, and no nailbrush. I have to let him test the water before he'll let me shower), Clark/Kal El/Superman starts breakfast. I come out to find him frying bacon. He's gotten dressed again. Hey, I would have told him not to bother on MY account, but if you're gonna fry bacon...I mean, even if you are Superman, common sense has to pop up somewhere. All that tempting fate stuff...

Anyway, besides the bacon, he pulls out a pan of biscuits. homemade, mind you. They don't have those little cardboard tubes around here, I've looked. Yes, in this short a time. I'm a southern red neck, honey. Biscuits are one of the major food groups. He also mixed up a batch of milk gravy to go with it. Seems that Ma Kent taught him more than to always were clean underwear, and carry a handkerchief.

I'm beginning to wonder how the heck he's managed to escape matrimony all this time. I mean, if I'd met someone like him back home... Gorgeous, sexy, polite, sweet, steadily employed, not gay... Hell, shy as I was, I'd have probably had a go at flirting. What could it hurt? He's the type who would have turned you down so nicely it wouldn't have hurt much more than... say... your average root canal. He'd had at least two 'serous' girlfriends, as far as I knew. Lana Lang, a highschool flame, and Lois, the big city siren. Why hadn't either of them gotten...

Then I remembered Diana's snip about Lana moving out, and that open mouthed kiss I'd shared with Lois (no, I haven't forgotten that little incident). Those could explain a lot. But Lois had said she was bi, hadn't she? And frankly, Kal El struck me as immanently capable of bringing out straight tendencies. I knew I didn't want anything deathless with him (lord, how long would deathless be with a transplanted Kryptonian?), but I was puzzled as to why no one else did, either.

I decided not to ponder on it too heavily. After all, a very nice, very sexy man had just given me a perfectly wonderful orgasm, and he was now feeding me. Bliss!

He watched me eat, and I was sure to make appreciative noises every now and then. I'd gotten into a loose, silky robe Lois had left for me. I was healing nicely, but those pink patches of skin were still a little sensitive.

As I finished the last fork full, chugged some of the orange juice we'd discussed earlier *snicker* and sat back with a replete sigh, he said, "Had enough?"

"For the time being." I stood up, stepped around the table, and plopped on his lap. He seemed a little surprised, but he grabbed on before I could slide off on the slippery material of my robe. I put my arms around his neck, said "Kiss the cook." and did.

His arms tightened around my waist, and we sat there for a little while. When we heard the front door open... He didn't exactly tense. There was just a fractional tightening. I didn't respond at all. I had my head dropped on his shoulder, and was enjoying a contentment I hadn't felt since the last time my mama burped me and put me down for a nap.

Jimmy and Lois came into the kitchen. Lois drew up short. After a moment's hesitation, Jimmy went and sat beside Clark. I blinked at him, then smiled. "What brings you here, handsome stranger?"

"Lunch time, and we thought we'd check up on you." He cocked his head, considering. "You both seem to be doing all right."

Lois said, "Scribe, you're looking better. Clark, you're looking... uh... rumpled."

"Scribe had a bit of an episode earlier, Lois. I'm going to give you those tranquilizers before I leave, and I don't want you to let them out of your possession again."

I stuck out my tongue at no one in particular. "I told you. I just wanted things to go away for a while. Well, they're gone now. If they come back, I think I can kick 'em away without the pills."

Lois sat down on the other side of Jimmy, rubbing her forehead. "God, why didn't I think about that?"

"Oh, please, no guilt. Had enough guilt, thank you. If I really wanted to kill myself, that wouldn't be all that much of a deterrent. People who are serious about that succeed, you know. Sad but true. But not true in this case, okay?" I made my voice dramatic. "I have found the will to live."

Jimmy regarded me with mischievous eyes. "Did you get laid?"

"Jimmy!" Clark and Lois did perfect two part harmony.

He shrugged. "Well, like you said Lois, he's rumpled. And Clark is never rumpled. And I don't think Scribe has much on under that robe. And they smell like sex..."

"Jimmy!"

I grinned.

"I'm sorry, but you do. Not that it's a bad thing, just... distracting as hell." I made fanning motions in his direction, and he almost choked on laughter. "And Scribe... your eyes look kind of... slanty. And your smile... If you were a cat, you'd be purring, and I'd be looking for canary feathers. So, did you get laid?"

"Mmmm? Kinda sorta almost not really but a close approximation. On the purity scale I'm still about..." I looked at Clark. "Eighty nine per cent?"

"No more than eighty two, I'm afraid." he replied with a straight face. I didn't give the man enough credit. He does have a sense of humor.

"Hm. Not good enough for Ivory soap, but I'm still eligible for maypole dances." Another giggle. "Ooo, I just got a mental image..." Jimmy's laughter says his thoughts slid into the same gutter.

I cross my legs, and manage to tap his knee with my toe. "Seriously. You didn't tell anyone about this, did you? I mean, I'm not gonna make page two, am I?" I'm trying to sound light, but I don't know how much success I'm having. I really don't want to discuss what happened with anyone else. Like I said before, I have it pretty much under control. But it's so fresh that I'm afraid that going close to it right now will encourage it to snap at me.

"There's been no official report," Lois reassured me. "And there won't be, unless you decide. We told Perry that you were mugged. He's sympathetic. He was roughed up himself a couple of years ago, so he won't press you. Other than that, it's me, Jimmy, Clark, Superman, your friend Clive, Toddy, and Tinkerbelle. Everyone's agreed to keep their traps shut. The only one we were worried about was Tinkerbelle. Clive had a talk with her, and I think we're safe. Your friend is... interesting."

"You didn't tell him I used Lava soap on my hair, did you? I'd hate to hurt him like that."

"He said to tell you the hair appointment stands. You'll need it. And don't worry, he's laying in a supply of silk scarves. What does that mean?"

I can feel myself blushing. "Um, private joke."

I wiggle off and stand up. This brings my tummy somewhere in the vicinity of Jimmy's face. He tips his head forward just enough so that his nose brushes the green silk of my robe. Hey, it could have been accidental.

*giggle*

Geez, I think I officially qualify as a Dirty Old Broad now. When I left for the convention, I was expecting the experience of a lifetime. I was planning on getting drunk and maybe pinching some young fanboy butts. This had more than lived up to my wildest expectation.

"I'd better go get dressed. I need to go in and finish up this afternoon." All three protest at once, and I say sharply. "Stop it. You're dear people, and I know you're worried about me. But the physical part is pretty well past now. In fact, it'll probably do me good to move around a little."

"But your emotional state," begins Clark.

"Is better than I have any right to expect. Look, I don't want to be babysat, okay? My mom wouldn't let me stay overnight alone till I was nineteen. Do you have any idea how that kills your self confidence? I'm not gonna be responsible for any of you hurting your jobs any more than you already have. And I don't want to stay here alone, because frankly people, your tv system sucks through a straw. I mean, it smells on ice. No X Files, no Sentinel, no Star Trek of any kind, no Buffy or Angel. Hell, I'd even settle for Wheel of Fortune. But since you don't have it, I might as well go be productive. Or as close as I can manage."

Chapter Nineteen: Ambushed by Celebrity

Is it wrong of me to hope that Amazon Island does not have an enlightened penal system? I mean, I seriously do not want Diana Prince in a 'country club' prison setting. I won't say I'll go as far as to wish the rack, or thumbscrews, or starvation, or red hot pokers...

Excuse me. I've read way too much goth lit.

As I've said, I don't wish, like, permanent physical damage. But I'm thinking damp, moldy walls, little or no light, maybe a length of chain. Rats. Rats would be nice. 'Cause I know they'd give Diana something to keep her occupied. She'd probably eat the boogers out of sheer spite.

It isn't too bad back at work. The apprentices and copy boys are sympathetic, but not intrusive. A couple of the punkier ones offer to check around, then kick the crap out of whoever mugged me. I thank them, and tell them that their mothers would be proud. I seem to have a talent for making people in this universe blush.

I get hold of a copy of the appropriate Daily Planet issue and check out the first article they've done on me. Hey, I made the front of the 'Science' section! There's a quarter page picture of me that I wasn't aware had been taken. So they did hire a photographer to follow me. Shudder, shudder. Stalker time.

But it's fairly innocuous. It looks like it was taken in the lunch room. Well, I guess I wouldn't have taken that much notice. Photographers are pretty common around newspapers, after all.

It's a closeup head shot. I admire how the dude managed that, without the sophisticated lenses and zooms of my time period. He made me look pretty good, actually. Of course, this was pre-Clive, and the background was mostly hair. But it managed to look more curly than frizzy, like it was that way on purpose, instead of because I'd long ago surrendered any attempt at control.

I must have just gotten through laughing at something, because I'm smiling, with just a hint of teeth, and my eyes are a little crinkled. No one's going to mistake me for Barbie, but then Barbie hasn't been invented here, and I look pretty good, dammit.

I read the article. It covers everything clearly and concisely. Clark keeps making references to Superman as his source. I sound like a pretty interesting individual. Actually, I didn't realize I'd told him that much about my life back in Terra Mundania. He must've compared notes with Lois.

There's a newsstand just outside the Daily Planet building, one of those kiosks I've seen all my life in old movies, but never in real life. The kind with not only racks of magazines and papers in front, but magazines and digests lining the inside walls and festooned around the roof edge.

And I find that dozens and dozens of images of myself are staring back at me. Lois is flagging for a cab, and I tug at her sleeve. "Lois? Could you please check to see that I'm not hallucinating?" She glances at the newsstand. Her mouth drops open a little. "Oh, good. I'm not crazy. Now I can concentrate on being confused again. What up with that?"

"Well... they did say that they'd hired a freelance photographer. If they didn't specify that all shots were the property of the Daily Planet, technically he'd be free to sell them elsewhere. I've worried about the intelligence of our legal department for some time now."

"But I don't get this. Usually there's a two, three month lead on material published in my world. You know, they're shooting the swimsuit layout when most of the country is up to their navels in snow. How the heck did they get this published so quickly?"

"Well, Scribe, it looks like there are at least a few areas where we've outstripped your world. I must say I'm glad. It gets a wee bit tiresome hearing how everything is stronger, faster, more sophisticated, better designed..."

"I get the picture. I'll try to ease up on the smugness."

"Still... I'd rather this wasn't one of the areas."

"Why?"

"Hey!" I jumped as the proprietor almost shouted in my ear.

"I didn't take anything. If I did, I'll put it back! Damn, this naturally guilty conscience. What?"

"It's you, ain't it?"

"No, I'm in Chicago. Me, who?"

"You, that interdim... what the hell ever. Some other place dame. Right? Right?"

I wince at his volume. People are starting to stare. I'd rather not have them stare unless I've started out to make them stare.

"Could you lower it a few dozen notches? Yeah, as far as I know I'm the only interdim... what the hell ever some other place dame. Though I prefer broad, thank you."

"I knew it! I knew it! Looka this." He waved his hand at his stock. "I got in twenty new magazines yesterday, and you know what?"

"I think I can guess, but you're going to tell me anyway, aren't you?"

"Your face is on eighteen of 'em. Eighteen ! The only ones that missed were Private Dick Stories, and My Steamy Confessions. I 'spect that's cause they're both pulp fiction, and the writers haven't had time to come up with anythin'. Though I do think the article in Poodle Fancier was kinda a stretch..."

I held my head. "...as the universe goes mad around her..."

Lois is methodically piling up a copy of every magazine that has my picture on the cover. "How much for these?"

"Oh, no charge! My pleasure."

My head goes up. Freebies? Oh, this is serious. I narrow my eyes at him and test the water. "Oh, no. We couldn't possibly." My tone is as sincere as a telephone solicitor's around the dinner hour.

"I insist! Here." He starts piling other magazines on.

"Really, we couldn't possibly. I'm just an ordinary person, I pay my bills like everyone else."

He's filling a sack with gum and candy bars. "Wait'll I tell everyone that you shop here! Maybe I can put up a sign..."

The cab comes, and I crawl inside, after leaving him with a slightly sickly smile. Lois drops her load between us as the cab pulls away. When I look out the rear window, he's waving. Unfortunately, he's also pointing, and people are looking interested.

"Lois, what the heck was that all about?"

She's reading something called Femme Fashions. It looks like they airbrushed some lipstick and eyeshadow on the photo of me they used on the cover. "Did you know that you favor 'the natural look', and shun pastels?"

"Huh? Is that their way of saying that I don't wear makeup, and I arrived in dark clothes?"

Now she was reading something called Debate Theories. Very scholarly looking, small print, small tasteful photo, where they caught me without a smile. "Here they’re arguing whether you're a serene, all-knowing goddess sent to save our planet, or an interdimensional siren seductress with a secret plot to take over the world."

"I'm a semi-repressed middle-aged fangirl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. What is it with these people?"

"People believe what they want to, Scribe. It looks like you're from far enough outside their everyday experience that they feel inclined to hang a whole lot of fantasies on you."

"What? Don't be absurd. I live with my mother. I buy clothes in the 'half size' section. I slept with a stuffed rabbit through college. I can't be anybody's fantasy."

"Tell them that." She showed me an issue of Bridal Planner. My head was superimposed on the body of someone wearing a white lace and seed pearl confection. At least the model didn't have a Scarlet O'Hara wasp waist.

"Oh, geez. I never even went to the senior prom, and they have me in a bridal gown? There is something so wrong with this universe." I take a few very deep breaths, and almost succeed in hyperventilating. "Okay. Who do I sue?"

"I'm not sure you can. I don't think the photographer would have made such a... er, massive effort if he wasn't pretty sure that he wouldn't be liable."

"Well, isn't this just ducky." We ride in silence for awhile. At last I say, "Okay, so I'll be a three day phenomenon. I guess I can ride it out."

"I'm not so sure it's going to just go away, Scribe."

"Hey, the next interdimensional shift or super villain should take the heat right off of me. This place must be due for interstellar contact at any moment. I just have to hang tough." I sigh. "There's one thing I'm grateful for. I miss VCRs and CD players and PCs, but..."

"Is everything just initials over there?"

"Only the important stuff. ISP, ROM, RAM, ICQ and all that. But, as I was saying, I'm glad that your T-shirt technology is behind ours."

"Why?"

"It means I don't have to worry about seeing myself staring back at me from the chest of every dork that has fourteen bucks and a herd mentality."

Chapter Twenty: Sexual Clarity

Lois POV

She just really doesn't get it. So what else is new?

*sigh*

She was a little surprised at how fast the news about her, the pictures, got distributed. Then she said she should have known better, since decades can be covered in a couple of pages. Whatever that means.

Any way, she thought she could just keep her head down, and interest would die out in a few days, maybe a week or ten days.

She just doesn't understand the dynamics of celebrity in this world, I guess. I prepared by immedieately getting an unlisted number and taking my name off the mailbox. Just in time, too.

That evening a tabloid called, and Scribe answered. They started trying to interview her, and she told them to go take a flying leap, then hung up. The next day the tabloid had her face pasted on the body of someone parachuteing with the title 'SCRIBE'S EXERCISE SECRETS'. I never saw anyone shred paper so fast in my life. One minute tabloid, the next, poof! Confetti.

She tried to keep up, as she termed it, 'what passes for a normal life with me.' It didn't help when we went to Lavender's Green a couple of nights later, and half the crowd was wearing Tee-shirts that said 'Scribe's Tribe.' She almost walked right back out, but they were all so happy to see her that she didn't have the heart.

She was subdued. Well, for Scribe, she was subdued. She only drank a Dirty Girl Scout, and a Kiss on the Cheek.

She let herself be coaxed into singing with the band, but she only sang quiet, rather sad songs. They had a strong effect anyway. I saw couples hugging and crying during something called 'I Will Always Love You'.

We got the news that she'd gone international just before we left. Clive came over to our table. He kissed her cheek gently. "How are you, love?"

"I'm better, Clive. I wanted to say thank you for..."

"Hush. It was more than a pleasure. That bitch had been giving the local Dominant community a bad rep. We knew it was just a matter of time before she snapped. I'm just sorry she snapped on you, sweetie. And it's a shame she had to mess up such a wonderful night for you. That was quite a triumph."

"Yeah, the song came out pretty well."

"I was talking about the publicity, darling. I must say, I appreciate the fact that they mentioned that I did your hair. I have queries comeing in from all over. One of the English princesses called to ask me to do her hair for some society do. I turned her down. I'd rather curry her polo pony."

"Publicity?"

"Didn't you know, Precious? You're famous. Check this out." He pulled a large, glossy magazine out of his leather jacket, and offered it. Scribe took it hesitantly. She stared at it for a minute, then looked up blankly and handed it to me.

It was an oversized picture magazine titled 'EXOTIQUE'. The cover was a medium shot of Scribe. It had apparently been taken at LG on the night of the incident. And it wasn't just a sedate headshot. I knew I'd seen flashbulbs popping.

Scribe was perched on the bar. Legs crossed in tight bluejeans, leaning back on her braced arms, the flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up, and unbuttoned right about down to her cleavage. Her head was thrown back, neck arched in a pale bow. Her mouth was a little open, lips curved as if she were enjoying a delicious joke. Blue eyes were wide and sparkling. Soft cap of dark curls was sprinkled with gleams of gold and red. Every inch of skin shimmered just a bit, as if coated with either sweat, or glitter. The copy underneath it said 'WILD CHILD'. She looked like someone Amish mothers would warn their children about before sending them into the city, and the sort of person that said Amish youths would immediately seek out.

"Thank you, Clive." She said quietly. "I think I'll go home now."

I followed her, and we rode home in silence. Once back at the apartment, she removed her boots, and hefted them over her shoulder. I winced, waiting to see if I'd need to replace anything when they landed.

Instead she lowered them gently to the ground and sat on the sofa, then put her face in her hands. I went and touched her shoulder. "Scribe, what is it now?"

"Wild child? Freakin' wild child? Okay, the wild I'll give them. I guess I could qualify for that. But child? I'm forty freakin' years old! I haven't been a child since most of them were in rompers."

"They're not talking physically, Scribe." I sat beside her. "They're talking spiritually, emotionally..."

She sighed. "Mentally."

"No, you're not stupid. You're just..." I gestured. I didn't know how to describe something I found endearing without making it sound derogatory. "...you. Childlike. You're always meeting something new, and it gives us a fresh look at it through your eyes."

She snorted. "You're a journalist, Lois. Use the right word. Childish. Immature, headstrong, stubborn, self involved..."

"Some of those things," I agreed. "But you'd be a hell of a lot less interesting if you weren't. And you recognize your faults, you own them. A lot of people, if you suggested they were less than perfect would give you a blank look, and change the subject."

"Really? Admitting my faults is a good thing? Here I thought it was a form of passive aggression. Honestly, Lois." She took up the magazine, and gazed at it sorrowfully. "That's not me. They think I'm some sort of a sex siren." She gave a short laugh. "Got 'em fooled, haven't I?"

I sat next to her, took the magazine and laid it aside. I said "I wouldn't go as far as to say that." and kissed her.

Scribe's POV

The whole deal has me a little shook up. I used to grit my teeth at the celebrities in my world who moaned about not being able to live a 'normal life.'

I'm generally a sympathetic person, but I had precious little sympathy for them. My philosophy ran, "Look, if you're gonna take off your clothes on a forty foot high screen, pose next to nekkid in magazines with a couple of million circulation, shake your booty on satalite tv, marry one of the most famous princes in the world (forgive me,Diana. I've grown to understand), then you shouldn't whine if people follow you around and take pictures and such. It's part of the package."

Now I was sort of in the same boat. But it wasn't fair. It wasn't like I'd set out to be the focus of millions of pairs of eyes. I got drunk and sang kareoke in a gay bar. Big woo.

Then it dawned on me that this was mostly, not because of what I'd done, but because of what I was. I was an involuntary visitor from somewhere else. And there wasn't a hell of a lot I could do about the situation. No matter how quiet and self effacing I was, I was still going to be from another universe. There wasn't anything I could do about that.

Piss.

What really got me was the fact that so many of these people seemed to find the image I was projecting as sexy.

I just didn't see it. I mean, I was still plump. I still had uncontrolably curly hair (though I have to admit that Clive had worked wonders with it). I was still at the big four-oh, and I looked a long way from teenybopperhood.

I looked at the photo on EXOTIQUE, and all I saw was someone's maiden aunt acting up on a Saturday night. I more or less said so to Lois, inviting her to share my incredulity at the rest of the world.

Instead, she said, "I wouldn't go so far as to say that," and kissed me.

I'm not sure if my first reaction was sexual, or emotional. In any case, I put my arms around her and kissed her back.

It wasn't quite like that other time I kissed her. I was... sort of testing waters then. Seeing if I was going to freak out. If I had any tendencies at all in this direction. It hadn't been fair to Lois, really, because I knew darn good and well that that was all there was going to be right then. Now...

This time I was the one who parted my lips, almost questioningly. And I got an answer. The answer was a silent "Yes, thank you. That's exactly right. And my, don't you taste good?"

Her tongue went everywhere, with that small invitation. I felt it in parts of my mouth I didn't know existed. It was startling. I thought I had been kissed a fair amount since I'd arrived. I mean, Superman, Lois, even a quick one from Jimmy. Nothing this thorough and... determined.

With Clark, I had been the initiatore. With Diana, I had been the prey. This was different from both. Lois was moving aggressively, but I felt no danger. No fear. She'd already proved how much she cared for me. This seemed to be just another facet.

Her hands moved to the back of my head, sliding her fingers through my curls. All the way through, right out. She pulled back, and I took the opportunity to grab some oxygen. She sighed against my mouth. "Can you see why I wanted you to keep it long? It's so darn hard to get a grip."

"I happen to be doing very well without a grip, if you hadn't noticed. I haven't had a grip since..." I'm forced to shut up when she kisses me again. And she does manage to get a grip in my short hair, and holds my head firmly in place, and returns to mapping my mouth.

I'm not sure if she pushed me, or I fell, but I'm lying back on the sofa, legs dangling over the side, and she's sort of on top of me. And that's funny, because I'd always assumed that the first time I had someone on top of me, they'd have a Y chromosome. I find that this doesn't bother me.

There's a break, and Lois says, "Are you all right with this?"

"Huh? I dunno. I think I need another example to make up my mind."

"We can do that." This time she draws my tongue into her mouth and sucks on it while she unbuttons my shirt. She pushes the material aside, mumbling, "Something to be said for this odd bra of yours. It's easier to move than armor."

My hands are fluttering around, lighting here and there. "I... uh... I don't know what..."

"Whatever. You don't have to do a thing, if you don't want to." She ducks her head, and I get the first experience of someone other than a mammogram technitian touching my bare breast. Of course, they never used their lips... so it goes even beyond that.

I suddenly find that I'm in even greater need of oxygen, gasping deeply. "Oh, geez, no wonder Clark liked that." I feel her laugh against me, and let me tell you, that's a very interesting sensation. I hear the pop of my jeans snap opening, and the rough purr of the zipper going down. For a moment, I freeze, because the sounds call up too much. They make me think of white tiles, and disenfectant, and khaki, and helplessness, and pain.

Then Lois is holding me, and whispering, "It's all right, Scribe. Don't be afraid. I'm sorry, I forgot."

"It's all right. It was just a second."

"Are you sure?"

I put my face against her neck. "Not gonna let her do it to me, Lois. Not gonna let her hurt me all over again every time someone tries to get close." I take her hand, and lay it against my belly, then push it down. "You won't hurt me. I know that."

"No, I'd never hurt you." Her hand slides into my panties and begins a slow, gentle motion. It's different from with Clark. I was right. Skin on skin is better. She pulls my hand up under her skirt, and I find out that some of those girdles are bottomless. I try to mimic her movements, because I have absolutely no problem with what she's doing. She seems happy enough with my efforts, judgeing from the moaning. And I have to marvel at how different this is from the assault.

Lois is aggressive, but it's tempered with care and consideration. What she's doing is technically what Diana did, I'm still being penetrated, but it's so different. I'm being gently ravished instead of plundered. And the orgasm I have is just as intense as the one I had with Clark.

I lose control a little, and worry vaguely that I might be too rough in my own caresses. But Lois just hugs me, kisses me, and trembles against me for a long time. We still sleep in separate rooms, but she tucks me in again, like she did the first night. And this time she kisses me goodnight. And I'm getting a little clearer about my own place in the sexual universe.

Chapter Twenty-one: Famous For Being Famous, and Just a Minute...

Okay, so I'm a celebrity.

*sigh*

Have you got any idea what a load of horse manure that is? I suppose it could be an advantage, if I wanted to work it. Entrance to exclusive clubs, free meals in fancy restaurants just so people will see me eating there and swarm in, cases of products that people want me to endorse. But, damn it, I've never used eyeliner, and I'm not gonna shill for it now. I suppose I could have used it to paint Japanese style art...

Being famous for being an interdimensional kidnappee, I could understand. But this has gone directly to the 'famous for being famous' thing, only on a grand scale. Back home, George Hamilton got Hollywood Squares and a few minor product endorsements. Zsa Zsa was a punch line on Leno and Letterman. It's a lot more serious here. It's kind of scary. Don't these people have lives?

Two weeks after EXOTIQUE. Daily Planet circulation has sky rocketed because, not only does it have the only personal, first hand info on me, I work there. Hah. I'm stuck in a back room, hiding from the constant stream of lookiloos that security can't seem to keep out. The owners are happy, though. I got a raise. Of course, it's several decimal places away from some of the offers I'm getting.

I'm getting fan mail. I started letting the gang at Lavender's Green deal with most of it after the first few days. Jesus, that poor mailbox almost exploded. It was jammed so full that both Lois and I had to haul on it. I, of course, fell flat on my ass when a handful came loose. That photo ended up on the front cover of the Coast to Coast Enquirer. Lois was standing over me, reaching to help me up. They hinted at a 'domestic situation'. Clive suggested I give an interview to Galaxy, just to piss them off, and I've considered it.

I read some of the fan mail. Sheesh. There are some nice people out there, but some of the others...I'm just praying that these people get off on writing, and have no intentions of arriving in Metropolis to make their dreams come true. Because, let me tell ya, my maidenhood would be declared an endangered species. There are some really inventive boogers out there. I was expecting death threats. Surprisingly enough, there haven't been any. Unless you count being... um... pleasured to death. Yeah, lots of big egos out there, too.

Oh, and they're trying to look like me, too. This has me wondering if my situation is science-fiction, fantasy, or horror. Clive is thrilled. He's making enough money to consider expanding. "If I can keep my sanity from board straight blondes coming in and wanting to emerge just like you, precious. I'm good, but I'm not fucking Mandrake, the Magician." There are some perks. On my second visit, I became intimately acquainted with a set of solid silver handcuffs. (No, I won't tell you about it right now. You're spoiled, all of you.)

Oh, and did I mention the tv offers and movie scripts? Everything from guest spots on soaps, to co-anchor on a local news show, to my own breakfast themed cooking show. How many episodes could they do on Pop Tarts and cold cereal?

The movies had me being everything from a super hero with ill-defined powers to a policewoman partnered with a talking monkey. So you see, at least moviewise this world was pretty close to ours. As big a ham as I am, I wouldn't have paid 99 cents for a five day rental of those turkeys, so I wasn't tempted.

I waded through all this, trying to keep a level head. Hysteria just kept peeking around the corner, waiting to see if I was ready, but I kept beating it off. The gang helped a lot.

They were very protective. When a paparazzi snuck into the break room and started snapping pictures, Jimmy crowned him with a trash barrel. Then he and the rest of the apprentices and copy boys sort of tobogganed the poor squelch down a stairwell, after jerking the film out of his camera. The guy tried to make some noise about filing a suit. I spoke to him long enough to ask him if he really wanted me to make a public statement about how hideously he'd damaged my psyche.

I don't know how much more of this I can stand. This world has felt pretty real to me, up until now. Now I'm worried about succumbing to unreality. What if I become too much a part of this universe? Will I be able to go home, when they find a way?

Just a minute...

Is anybody trying to get me back home?

Oh, cripes. I've been so distracted by this fecal storm that I haven't thought about that. Who's looking, and how? Do I have to look myself? Scratch any chance at all right then. When it comes to science, if I was a dog, I wouldn't have enough brains to find my way to the end of a leash.

Am I going to have to start meeting with some of those scientists that have been yammering after me? Oooh, I don't want that. I've seen too many movies, read too many fan fictions. They conjure up images of Companies and Consortiums. Sterile rooms with glass walls and bars. And icky things like needles and straight jackets. Hey, maybe I'm a little paranoid. But then again, what if I'm not? No, I really don't want to have to deal with them.

So, as far as I can think this out, that pretty much leaves me with one choice.

I'm gonna have to have a serious talk with Clark/Kal El/Superdude.

Chapter Twenty-two: The Big Guy in Blue's Guilt Trip

Clark's POV

I'm ashamed of myself. I truly am.

Scribe came and sat with me today at lunch, shooing away the others. I'll admit to being just a tiny bit smug. After all, with her new fame, private time with her is something of a social coupe.

Not that this sort of thing matters to me.

But she laid such a guilt trip on me, and I'm pretty sure that she didn't actually mean to. Not as much as she accomplished, anyway. I did a lot of it myself. I'm good at that.

Anyway, she asked how the search for a way to send her home was progressing. Well, I lost any appetite I might have had for my tuna melt right then and there. Because there was no search for a way to send her home. Not officially, anyway. Well, not unofficially, either, at least on my part.

Truth was, it hadn't occurred to me. Not for a long time, anyway. The first couple of days I had wracked my brain. I'm not stupid, I'm sure I exhausted any good possibilities that I knew of. I had a vague notion that Mixedpickles *why was I thinking of him by that name? Oh, yeah, that was Scribe's name for him* would show up eventually, and something would be worked out.

Looking at the wistful expression on her face, I began to realize that I had been behaving cavalierly. And, perhaps, selfishly.

Okay, no perhaps about it. The fact of the matter is...

I really don't want her to go. I like her. A lot. And it isn't just the fact that she climbed on top of me wearing nothing but a sheet and drove me out of my mind. Or the fact that I'd really, really like a repeat performance (or maybe more). I'll admit that's a big part. of it, but not all of it.

She's very sweet to the people she cares about. She's brave, although I think she'd snicker at that. Anyone who can come through all the manure she has and not just end up gibbering and drooling in the corner is braver and stronger than most people I know.

I guess most importantly, she knows who I am. Not just the secret identity. She seems to have grasped the whole Clark Kent/Kal El/Superman thing, and isn't confused, impressed, or put off. I mentioned it once, and she said that if she could accept the Holy Trinity on faith, she supposed she could handle me. She's the only person I've ever known who can see me and deal with me on all levels. It's such a relief that, when I'm with her, I don't have to worry about being one or the other. I can just...be. So, I really wish she'd just settle down and quit worrying about it.

But there she sat, with that almost hurt look on her face, and she said, "Do you know what I sang at Lavender's Green last night, Clark? 'Five Hundred Miles Away From Home', 'Take Me Home, Country Roads', 'You're My Home', 'I Wish I Was Goin' Home', 'Sloop John B...' Okay, I have to explain that one. Chorus goes, 'Let me go home. Why dontcha let me go home? This is the worst trip I've ever been on.' Do you sense a connecting theme here?"

I cleared my throat. "I'm keeping my feelers out in the scientific community." I looked at the other staffers seated nearby. "Superman has gone over all obvious possibilities."

She frowned. "So that's it? You two are going to just let it ride?" She took a breath, and turned melting eyes on me. I started to melt a little myself. "After all we've meant to each other?"

"Scribe... I... we... you..." I paused. "Are you trying to make me feel guilty?"

"Is it working?"

I shook my head, but said, "Yes, it is. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"No. Anyway, I shouldn't have to make you feel guilty. Should I?"

And she was right. As Superman, it's my job to set things like this right. As Clark, well, she generously gave me one of the most gratifying experiences of my life. If we aren't lovers, I'd say we're close. And as Kal El, I feel indebted by our shared sorrows. We've both lost our homes, our people, our families. The difference is, there is a small chance that she could get hers back. Shouldn't I do all I can to insure that? I should. I will.

*sigh*

But I'll be awful sad to see her go.

Chapter Twenty-three: Redheaded Strategy Session

Jimmy's POV

I'm having a hard time not telling myself that it's not fair.

I mean, there's absolutely no reason in the world why she should take a particular interest in me, especially now that the world has discovered her. It's kind of ridiculous, really. I mean, she has literally thousands of men and women panting after her. Why should I think that maybe she could notice me a little more than any of them? Pay me a little more attention... put her hands on me more...

Stop it.

Why not? Because they don't know her, really. They don't appreciate her as much. To them, she's just something new and flashy, and they're curious.

Oh, like I'm not.

No, not that way, I'm not. Much. I want to really know her, and I do know her better than most, better probably than anyone except Lois, and Clark, and maybe Clive.

I'm not jealous. I'm not jealous. I'm not jealous. Keep telling yourself that, Olsen

. The thing is... Okay, she had something with Clark, I know that. I'm, like, 99 64/100 % sure that something went down with Lois. I know for damn sure something happened with Clive, the rep he has about that private station.

To someone who didn't know her, she might seem kinda promiscuous. Oh, there's a concept. A promiscuous virgin. As Scribe would say, *snicker*. The way I see it, no one would think twice if someone had say, five, or even ten lovers during their life. With Scribe, it's just that she's running into all of hers in a short period of time. She wouldn't do it, really, with anyone she didn't feel strongly about. I can hear you out there. What about Clive? Right off the street. People, Clive is a whole 'nuther proposition. I think he comes under the classification of 'force of nature'. Back to the main point...

Why not me?

I'm her friend. I care about her. A lot. I try to help out, try to take care of her, try to protect her. Not that I'm doing it to earn points to be turned in toward a fuck, mind you. But it counts for something, doesn't it?

And back in the diner... We had a moment there, I know we did. I could feel it. She didn't jump and run when I put my hand on her thigh, like that Prince bitch. And she let me kiss her when I took her back to Lois'. Even got in the teeniest swipe of tongue. Yum.

But nothing really intimate since then. In the diner, I'll admit, it was just random horniness, testing the waters, seeing if I could get a little. It's different now. I know her, now.

I think maybe she has issues with the age thing. She's made comment on it before. I, on the other hand, have no problems with it. More mature woman, younger man? Fine by me. Anyway, some study I read said that women of her age and men of my age are each reaching their sexual peak, so it would make sense, wouldn't it? I clipped that article, in case I need convincing material farther down the line.

She's been a little depressed lately. A depressed Scribe is not a natural thing. When she first arrived, everything was so new, and she was so busy dealing with it, that she didn't really feel homesick. Now that she's settled in some, it's started gnawing at her.

Leaving home is one thing, but she left home, and not voluntarily. She doesn't have the comfort of knowing that she can climb on the Big Grey Dog and go back, or pick up the telephone and make contact, or even write a letter that will arrive in a familiar mailbox. How lonely must that be?

She told me that this world is incredibly like her own, but that there are subtle differences. But she just can't forget that this isn't home. "There's just something bone deep, molecular level, Jimmy. No matter how familiar it seems, there's always that teeny little slant, and the voice in the back of my head keeps whispering that it's just... not... right."

She sort of thumps herself for not being able to ignore this or overcome it. She told me that maybe it would be more sensible, more practical to just throw up her hands and resign herself to living here. "But practicality and sensibility have never been my strong suits, sweetie."

I do what I can. We do what we can. We try to let her know that she isn't really alone, she has us. But sometimes she'll get quiet, and just stare at something, and I know that it's reminded her of something back in her own world, something that she might never see again. For a minute, she'll look so sad. Then she'll shake it off, but it was there, and I can't forget that.

"It isn't that you aren't all lovely people." She's trying to be sweet, and diplomatic. I don't want any of that. I don't want to be a 'lovely person.' I want to be important to her. Hell, I want to be necessary. I don't want to be lumped in.

All right, it's my fault. I haven't been doing much to distinguish myself, I guess. If she was just any other person, I could risk just waiting around, taking it slow, hinting. I should've known better. With all the noise she's got swirling around her right now, how is she supposed to distinguish subtle?

Time to think strategy...

Chapter Twenty-four: Attracting Attention of the Wrong Sort Again

Lex Luthor's POV

I don't follow the pop media very much, but I do like to be aware of trends, events, and people who might be turned to my advantage, or amuse me. I employ a number of people to keep their eyes open for such things, and report to me. So why is it that I had to stumble on the... I suppose I'd best call it a phenomenon, by myself?

I can see that I have a great deal of firing to do.

I might not have known about it at all if it weren't for several small things. For one, while I was dining out, the waiter asked if I would like anything from the bar. Instead of waiting for my decision like a good peon, he recommended that I try one of the fashionable new cocktails. What is or is not fashionable with the masses seldom concerns me, but I was bored. I'm often bored these days. He suggested something called a 'Bahama Mama'.

As you might imagine, I was dubious. But as I said before, I was bored, so I succumbed to his blandishments and tried it. It was a pleasant surprise: tasty and highly alcoholic. I thought the tiny paper umbrella was totally unnecessary, but rather a nice touch. As I'd never encountered such a concoction, I asked him to pass my compliments along to the bartender, whom I assumed had invented it. He corrected me (luckily for him in a deferential manner), saying that it had been introduced at a local club by someone named Scribe.

Peculiar name. But then there have been some unwise enough to say the same about my own. The second indication was when I noticed that several of the secretaries and receptionists in my holdings had within days of each other received similar haircuts. Suddenly I was surrounded by women with very short, very curly hair. This entailed getting permanents for some of them. One of them, who had been rather a nice honey blonde had also dyed her hair dark brown, with red highlights. It was aesthetically pleasing, but I couldn't fathom the reason behind it. Then I overheard two of them discussing their new 'Scribe 'dos."

There was that odd name again.

When I passed someone on the street who was wearing something other than a uniform that had writing on it, I paused to look. 'Scribe's Tribe'.

It was becoming clear that something was going on, and that my information gathering forces were falling down on the job. I knew it for a fact when I spotted the weeks old magazine that had been left for supplicants foolish enough to show up without an appointment.

What caught my eye first was the haircut, obviously what my employees had been discussing. But somehow it looked different on this woman. It looked... right. I picked up the issue, took it to my private office, and had one of the peons call the idiot in charge of my media monitoring.

When he arrived, the magazine was placed squarely in the center of my otherwise bare desk. I tapped it with one finger, and raised my eyebrows in silent inquiry. He looked at it, and proved my assessment of his intelligence, or lack thereof, by misinterpreting my meaning. "I'll have the new issue up right away. It just hit the stands about six hours ago..."

"Is there an article," I tapped the magazine again, "on this woman in it?"

"Yes, I believe there's always something about her in it these days."

I picked up the magazine and examined the cover again. "If I'm not mistaken, this is a well known, widely distributed publication."

"Yes, multinational."

"Circulation in the millions?"

"Uh... I don't have the figures at my fingertips, but several million, yes."

"Then would it be safe to assume that they are not alone in their interest in this particular individual?"

He was starting to sweat, beginning to realize what I meant. I am told that I am at my most intimidating when I am calm. I was very calm at that point. "No. There's been a great deal of interest. She's been featured in... I suppose hundreds of articles."

"I see." I looked at the cover photo again. "And this was not brought to my attention because...?"

He's fidgeting now. "Well, sir, she's nothing but a sort of pop culture freak, as far as I can tell. The only thing really unique about her is the fact that she managed to accidentally shift from one dimension to the other, and..."

"Excuse me. I thought you just said that she was from another dimension."

His smile is almost sick. "Yeah, but she has no knowledge that could benefit you or your enterprises, sir. We have kept tabs on her, and she has no industrial, medical, scientific, economic, or financial knowledge that could be in any way superior to..."

"Then why exactly is the woman famous? To everyone but me, it seems. What does she do?" He waved his hands helplessly. "She... she... she just... Well, she sings."

"I do occasionally listen to the radio. I don't recall hearing any of her works."

"Not professionally. She sings armature at a bar. The one where that photo was taken."

"Ah. And?"

"She's introduced a lot of new alcoholic drinks, usually with... um... off color names. And she cut her hair."

I tapped a finger on the desk. "Sings. In a bar. Invents cocktails. Cut her hair. Yes, these things would seem to deserve fame."

At least he catches my sarcasm. He flushes. "It's hard to explain. She's... she's just... more."

"More what?"

"More everything, pretty much. It's hard to explain."

"Would studying all material related to her help one to understand?"

"Oh, absolutely. If you read all the articles..." He trailed off, and the blood drained out of his face as he realized that he was the reason I hadn't read the articles.

I picked up the magazine again. "You may go now. Stop at accounting for your final check. Security will see you out." He knew better than to argue, and went to the door. "And send in my secretary."

He left, and a moment later my secretary entered, notebook in hand. Ready to take orders, admirably efficient. Pity that the 'Scribe do' didn't flatter her in the least. "He is no longer employed. Put out the word that it would displease me greatly if he found employment anywhere in the forty-eight contiguous states. Also fire then entire media monitoring staff and replace them. I need all available, and I mean all, on this woman." I showed her the photo.

She wrote, but her eyebrows were climbing. "Do you have a comment?"

"Not really, sir. It's just... Well, you're the only person I know who doesn't know about her."

"That is what I am trying to remedy. Go on about your work."

She left, and I settled back in my chair more comfortably. I studied the picture carefully. It looked almost like a candid photo. The more I looked, the more convinced I was that it had not been staged.

"Wild Child". Well... My eyes lingered on the gentle swell that rose above the two undone buttons of the flannel shirt. Not physically, no. But there was, indeed, something childlike in the total unconscious abandon of the pose, the sparkle in the eyes.

The masculine attire was at odds with the femininity of the face and body. It was an peculiarly... stimulating effect. "EXOTIQUE. Yes, I suppose so." With one fingertip I traced the curve of the smiling lips, then down to where the shadow of cleavage ended. Then I opened the magazine and began to read.

Chapter Twenty-five: Tokens of Admiration, and Speculation on Ulterior Motives

"Scribe, someone sent you flowers."

I sighed. "Again? Let me tell you, roses were already on their way to losing their romantic cache when I came here. I mean, back home, any bozo with a ten and a couple of minutes to stop by the local MinitMart could come up with roses. Sort of glutted the sensibilities, and they thought giving them would do everything from get them into your pants to make you forget you caught them fucking your best friend in your own bed."

I was at work. I got a lot of deliveries at the Daily Planet, because it was an easy address for my fans to remember. 'My fans'. Sheesh, did I feel like a dork saying that, but it was pretty much what they amounted to. The office had been over run with bouquets for awhile. The air had been so thick and sweet with the scent that I was afraid I was going to come down with diabetes. I finally told security to take them away after I'd seen them, and either distribute them to other floors, or give them to a local hospital. I felt obliged to at least look at each offering and read whatever card was attached. That way, if anyone ever asked me if I’d gotten their flowers, I could honestly say yes. "Not roses this time, Scribe." Lois brought a beautiful green stone pot over to my desk. In it grew several tiny flowers about the size of cashew nuts. They were brown, but it wasn't a drab, dead brown. It was deep and velvety, and there were red streaks on the delicate petals. They were like nothing I'd ever seen before, and actually quite beautiful.

I leaned down and sniffed. The scent was almost spicy. "Cool. What are they?"

"I don't know. Hey Hortense." Lois called over the Gardening Editor. "What are these?"

"Let's see." Hortense donned a pair of cat's eye glasses and studied the blossoms carefully. "Well, they're dwarf orchids. Those are kind of rare. Your beau must think a lot of you to spring for these, Scribe."

"I don't have a beau."

"I've never seen any this tiny or this color before. Though..." She hesitated. "No, really, that's hardly likely."

"What?"

"Well... there have been rumors that a certain person was trying to develop a hybrid just like this one, and was getting close. But he'd hardly be giving away specimens." She giggled. "Unless he was planning on using them as tax deductions. They'd be worth quite a few thousands to collectors and commercial growers." Hortense reached toward the plants, but didn't quite dare touch the tiny petals. "You know, Scribe, they're the exact same shade as your hair."

Lois handed me an envelope. "Maybe this will explain things."

I turned it over in my hands. The paper was heavy and thick. Probably had a higher rag content than most clothing. A single word, my name, was slashed on the front in bold black strokes, the letters spiky. I wondered what a graphologist would make of that handwriting. I almost expected the booger to be sealed with signet embossed wax instead of being glued. I opened it and pulled out a single sheet of paper that was just as high toned as the envelope. There was a faint watermark on the paper. It looked like two overlapping capital Ls.

The same aggressive handwriting was scratched on the page. 'My dear Scribe,' it ran. 'Please accept this first blooming of my new orchid as a token of my esteem. I have taken the liberty of signing the patent over to you. I have named it 'Scribe's Glory'. Intrigued, Lex Luthor.'

"Simple. To the point. Flattering without being gushy. Hinting at luxury, and including a unique, and most importantly, expensive gift." I grunted. "I give it a 9.3."

"Not a ten?" Lois asked, dark brows quirking sardonically.

"To quote the great Bobby Bare, there ain't no tens. He loses points for the fact that he's a sociopath most likely bent on world domination."

"Ah. That would do it." A few of the other staffers came over to investigate.

Clark came in and joined us. Those baby blues were sharp behind his horn rims as he read the letter, frowning. "He doesn't mention the pot."

I shrugged. "It's pretty."

"I should hope so. It's solid jade. Tang dynasty, if I'm not mistaken. I covered an auction of Chinese antiquities at Carrington House Consignments last week. If I remember correctly, this fetched three thousand dollars."

I blinked. "All right. A 9.6, then."

"He's after something."

I put my hands on my hips. "He can't just want to give me a present without wanting something?"

Clark shrugged. "Porcine mammals will develop avian tendencies before Lex Luthor does anything without a personal motive."

Jimmy said, "Again, please, in English."

I translated. "Pigs will fly. What's the worry? It's not like I have anything he'd be after." Lois and Clark both gave me a look. "Stop it. From what you've told me, he has his pick of models and actresses and..." Jimmy nudged a copy of EXOTIQUE toward me. This time the cover photo showed me staring off into space with a dreamy, intense look on my face, one fingertip touching my mouth. It looked like I was pondering something steamy and romantic. "Where the hell...? Wait a minute, I recognize that. For heaven's sake, I was at a restaurant, trying to decide between cheesecake and a chocolate sundae! There was nothing remotely sexual about..." I paused, remembering that cheesecake. "Never mind."

"Scribe, if Lex Luthor is turning his attention to you, it might be better if we found you someplace more secure to stay." Clark commented.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Meaning?"

"I think Superman could be persuaded to put you up at the Fortress of Solitude for awhile."

"What? Me, stuck up at the North Pole, all by my lonesome? Because I know he couldn't hang around and keep me company, not with his day job." I looked at Clark pointedly.

"Clark may have a point on this," said Lois. "The authorities haven't been able to get anything concrete on Lex for a long time, but even if what he's doing isn't strictly illegal, his methods are stunningly unethical."

"Cussable, Lois, but as you said, not prosecuatable. If it was, most of the businessmen and some of the evangelists in my home dimension would be doing time even as we speak. You people need to chill. The man just sent me flowers, that's all. Hideously expensive, but flowers, nonetheless. Quit worrying. It probably means nothing more than the fact that he wants me to make an endorsement for one of his companies, or something. I've had plenty of those dodges, haven’t I?"

They looked unconvinced. I must admit, I was being more flippant than I felt. There was something a little intimidating about receiving, from a stranger with a bad reputation, a present that was worth more than any car I'd ever owned.

I got instructions from Hortense on the proper care of the orchids. She agreed to board them in her greenhouse, as I couldn't provide the proper temperature and humidity to keep them healthy.

The second delivery came around lunch time. It was a large, greenish bottle, with a faded label. This time the accompanying letter said, 'In tribute to your creativity with spirits.'

The Food and Beverage editor almost fainted. "Chateau de Romy Cambarole, 1921! There are only a half dozen bottles of this still in existence! Oh, God, please let me smell the cork!"

"I'm afraid to ask, but what is it worth?"

"There's no telling, you'd have to auction it. But I tell you this, if I had the money, I'd buy it as an investment."

"Yeah? Well, get me some ice. I'm gonna drink this puppy."

He turned pale. "You can't!"

"Why not? It's mine now."

"No, I mean the ice! Good lord, woman, you can't pollute this nectar with ice!"

"You can turn your head if it bothers you. I have as little patience with connoisseurs whining about no ice as I do with 'master chefs' having fits when I want a steak well done instead of rare. Now, shut up or I won't give you any." He shut up. I poured for everyone at the table, and they all got at least a sip or two. The editor went into paroxysm over it, going on about bouquet and undertones. What do I know from wine? It was all right. It could have been Boone's Farm for all I knew. Clark was shaking his head. "Look, he's just showing off, all right? When he asks me to shill for him, he'll probably write it off as a business tax deduction."

That afternoon, a third delivery arrived. I unwrapped silvery paper to find a long, narrow, flat velvet box. I opened it and stared at the contents. The other staffers peered over interested. "What is it, Scribe?" Lois asked.

I pulled out a glittering strand. It was a medium length necklace of alternating pearls and white gemstones, all about the size of barley grains. Somehow I know those weren't cubic zirconias. Since this world didn't have shopping networks, science had never felt the need to invent that substance. Dangling as a pendant was a quarter sized charm that represented a sheet of parchment embossed with crossed quills. I believe it was made of platinum. The accompanying letter said simply. 'I would like to meet you. Lex Luthor.'

I looked up at them, and said, "Okay. Maybe he isn't interested in a business proposition."

Chapter Twenty-six: The Proper Way to Eat a Chocolate Covered Cherry

"The only thing missing," I said "is the chocolate. If he'd sent a box of Godiva candy, I think I'd have been obligated by the laws of femininity to at least date him."

Clark frowned. "Scribe, you've got to take this more seriously..."

"If I took things seriously, I'd be in a straight jacket by now. Look, I'm not going to go running off to a booth, in the back, in the corner, in the dark with the guy. But I ought to see him if for no other reason than to give him back this dingle-dangle."

Hortense gaped. "You're not going to keep it?"

"Are you kidding? My mother would kill me. 'Nice girls don't accept jewelry from men unless they're engaged to them.' Perfect drivel, of course, but in this case I agree. Something this expensive, the man would have to expect something in return." I put the necklace back into the box. "In any case, he hasn't really asked to see me. I mean, he didn't, like, mention a time, or anything."

Everyone but Jimmy, Clark, and Lois went back to work just before a parcel delivery man wandered in from the hall and came to my desk. "You Scribe?" Before I could answer he slapped his own forehead. "Gah, of course you are! Scuse me. Delivery for ya, sign here."

I scratched my name on the sheet, and accepted a box about the size of a jewelry case, and another envelope. Jimmy was scowling. "Better check it for ticking."

I arched an eyebrow at him. "Not turning a little green around the edges, are you Jimmy?" You have no idea how redheads blush. And I thought I turned pink.

I ripped open the brown paper, exposing a gold cardboard box. "Ooh, I have a very premonitionish feeling about this." I lifted the lid. Dozens of tiny, delicate figurines. Swirls, mounds, bars, balls, flowers, shells... all in milk or dark chocolate. The card laying on top said 'Guinevere Chocolates'. "Who the heck told him these things were my weakness?"

Jimmy started ticking off on his fingers, "The Inquirer, Undercover, EXOTIQUE, Gossip Gazette, Snoopers, Personality Pages, Psychology Monthly..."

"Yeah, yeah, I get the point. I have no secrets. Well, one. They still don't know about..." I glanced around. "...you know." They looked puzzled. "You know, my factory direct physical state."

Light dawned on Lois and Jimmy, but Clark still looked confused. Jimmy said helpfully, "She's still cherry."

"Oh." Embarrassed, he took off his glasses for a quick polish, as people will do when they're nervous. Neither Jimmy or Lois noticed that Superman was standing there in a business suit. He put his glasses back on, and I shook my head. It had to be genetic.

I ripped open the envelope to find the same now familiar stationery. 'If it is convenient, I will call on you at your place of business, as I am sure you wish the first meeting to take place in a public milieu. I will call you to confirm the time. Please do not deny this humble request. Lex Luthor.'

"Oh, he's good. He's very, very good. Suggesting a public meeting on my own turf to give me a sense of security. I do like his vocabulary, though. There aren’t many people who can use 'milieu' in casual conversation."

"Scribe!" Clark scolded. "You aren't really considering this, are you? I really don't want you to see this man."

I slid him a look. "Listen, my daddy died when I was twelve, and I'm not in the market for another one, 'kay?" I continued reading. "It says, 'P.S. I beg your pardon for the delay. These would have come sooner, but the jet from Switzerland was delayed.' Oh, boy." I selected a starfish shaped chocolate and popped it in my mouth. Raspberry liquer exploded on my tongue when I bit it, and I sighed deeply. Clark raised his eyebrows, examining the box of candy. "What?"

"Well..." He hesitated, glancing at Lois and Jimmy. Jimmy shrugged, and stuck his fingers in his ears.

Lois rolled her eyes. "I have work to do." She went back to her desk and started typing.

While I waited for Clark to decide to tell me whatever it was he had on his mind, I selected an oval decorated with a lightening bolt drizzle of darker chocolate. This time the flavor of praline cream caressed my taste buds, and I groaned.

Clark stared at me, shifting uneasily. Finally he leaned down and whispered in my ear. "Those noises you’re making... You sound just like you did when we... you know."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"You can unplug now, Jimmy." I picked up a foil wrapped piece of candy and peeled away the silvery paper. "I do believe this is a chocolate covered cherry." I shook it at the two men. "You know, chocolate is widely believed to be an aphrodisiac." I carefully nipped the top off the candy. "It releases endorphins in the brain, which cause natural feelings of euphoria." I closed my lips over the open top of the candy and slowly sucked the sugary liquid filling out.

They were both staring. The little devil on my left shoulder was dancing a hornpipe. "I mean, most people sense that, don't you think so? Otherwise why would they sell so much chocolate on Valentine's Day?" I neatly dropped the cherry onto my tongue, then chewed slowly. Finally I ate the rest of the chocolate in several tiny, nibbling bites, and licked the last of it off my fingers.

Jimmy said, in a faint, strangled voice. "Excuse me. I need to go to the men's room." He left quickly.

I looked at Clark, smiling. He cleared his throat. "I think I’ll go to the break room and have some coffee." His exit was almost as quick as Jimmy's.

Lois came back over. "I saw that, Scribe. That was a wicked thing to do to the poor guys."

I shrugged. "Nah. Naughty, maybe. Wicked would have been if I asked them if they wanted a cherry." Lois sputtered, just as the phone rang. I picked it up. "Newsroom. Fact checker, copy reader, and general gopher here. Who do you need to speak to?"

The voice that poured through the receiver was as dark, warm, and rich as caramel-hot fudge sauce. "I believe that would be you. Do I have the pleasure of speaking to Miss Scribe?"

"I don’t know about the pleasure part, but I'm Scribe."

"Yes, the articles do describe you as having a delightful accent. I am Lex Luthor."

"Oh. Yes, of course you are. Hello, Mr. Luthor." Lois stiffened, her eyes narrowing.

"Have you received my tokens? I want to be sure they arrived safely."

"Yes, just fine. Thank you. You’re too kind."

"Not at all. Simple tribute to a unique woman."

"Look, the flowers were lovely, the wine was delicious, the candy is so good it should be outlawed, and the necklace boggles my mind. But I can't keep the necklace."

"May I ask why?"

"It's too much."

"Miss Scribe, I do not wish to sound as if I am bragging, but you must realize that the expense of that piece was negligible to me."

"Well, it's not to me. I can't accept it."

"Very well. I can understand you're position. With the eye of the world trained on you, you must be discreet. But if you must return it, please allow me to claim it in person. As I said in my note, I want to meet you."

Lois was shaking her head, making frantic 'no' motions. "I don't see any problems with that." She clutched her head. "What time would be convenient for you?"

"Now would be ideal. I'm downstairs in my limo."

"What? I didn't think y'all had mobile phones yet," I said, bewildered.

There was a smooth chuckle. "The general population does not, Miss Scribe. I do. Only a handful of my associates have the equipment to call me, but I can call any of the normal phones. I intend to fine tune this for a bit longer before I make it commercially available. If you will notify security, I will be up anon."

I hung up and called security, telling them a visitor was on his way, and to let him come up. I hung up, and glanced at Lois. She had her arms crossed, and one foot was tapping rapidly. I shrugged. "Lois, he said 'anon'. I have to meet the guy."

"I'm going to go get Clark and Jimmy." She started for the door. "I want as many warm bodies in here as possible."

Chapter Twenty-seven: Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know

Scribe's POV

I stare at Lois, Clark, and Jimmy in turn. "Eactly how many chaperones are there at this party? Even Spanish senoritas only have one duenna."

"Their gentleman caller isn't Lex Luthor," Clark says stiffly.

I sigh. "Well, couldn’t you all at least stand on one side of the desk instead of surrounding me? I’m getting claustrophobic. No, that’s fear of tight spaces. Lessee, acro is fear of high places, agora is fear of open places, arachno is fear of spiders, angora is fear of fuzzy sweaters..." Blank stares. "It's a joke, people. You all look too damn serious."

Lois says pointedly, "Someone has to take this seriously."

I turn to Jimmy. "Tell 'em they're overeacting, Jimmy."

He shakes his head. "Not this time, Scribe."

"Geez, people! It's gonna be a ten, fifteen minute visit in a public place. What aren't you telling me about this guy?"

"Well, there was that immobility ray..." Clark starts.

"That was sort of a rhetorical question, not a request for detailed information." The door to the newsroom opened. News of my coming visitor had spread quickly, the Daily Planet having a grapevine to rival most small towns’, and half the staff had managed to find excuses to be there. You never saw so many pieces of paper being shuffled. It fell quiet, all eyes on the door. A man in a pearl grey chauffeur's uniform stepped in, and they deflated. He held the door, and the man next through it was more to their expectations.

He was at least as big as Superman. He wore a dark, casually elegant business suit that probably cost more than I would have made in six months during my most prosperous times. He was what I have always referred to as 'boldly bald': clean. There was no fringe, no tonsure, no long strands raked across the top and plastered in place. His pate was naked, smooth, and gleaming--and he was fine. Some men can do bald and look good. Yul Bryner, Billy Zane, Vin Diesel... Lex Luthor. *The guy looks like this, and he sends flowers, wine, candy, and expensive jewelry? Overkill.*

He came to the desk, and stood before me. He inclined his head cordially. "Miss Scribe."

I inclined right back at him. "Mr. Luthor." I waved a hand at the glee club. "May I present my posse: Pit Bull, Rottweiller, and Shepherd."

He smiled. "Dedicated bodyguards, I'm sure."

They were pressing in closer: right, left, and behind. I sighed. "Excuse me. I can't breathe." I stood, and since they didn't move, I climbed over the desk. Lois put her hand over her eyes, shaking her head as I shook hands.

I handed him the jewelry box. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"If you're sure." He accepted the return graciously, without taking insult. "I'll have it auctioned, and give the money to charity." He tucked the flat case in an inside jacket pocket, and surveyed the trio of vigilant reporters gathered around the desk. "Is there a place we might have a conversation with a bit less of an audience?"

Jimmy, Lois, and Clark chorused, "No."

I jerked my head toward them. "Three part harmony. What sort of a rep do you have, Mr. Luthor? They, um... impart nefarious motivation to your every move."

A smooth smile. "I am sadly misjudged."

I cocked my head, and said sweetly, "You aren't bad. You’re just drawn that way."

Ya know, with some people the sarcasm would have gone whoosh! Right over their head. Or else they'd have gotten it, and thrown their own acid right back at me. Or a slow boil would have started, leading up to an explosion. Luthor's smile widened, and I think I saw an extra spark of interest in his eyes. I took a mental step back. What is this genius I have for inspiring the wrong reaction in people who might not have my best interests at heart? I had the definite impression that it might not be entirely safe to have this man's full attention.

"I'm interested in your situation, Miss Scribe. I take it that you haven't been successful in locating a method of returning to your home dimension?"

"To make a long story short, duh. Mixedpickles doesn't seem inclined to make a return appearance. I'm only familiar with dimensional, space-time, alternate universe, simultaneous reality thingies through comic books. I have absolutely no idea where to start."

"You might start with me. I've been doing a good bit of research into such matters."

"She doesn't need your help." Jimmy said coldly.

Luthor's dark, nearly black eyes turned on him. The smile didn't waver, but there was something in those eyes... "And your interest in this is?"

"I'm her friend."

"What progress have you made toward returning her to her home, friend?" Jimmy scowled. "I see." He looked back at me. "A person may have many friends, of different types." He pulled out a small, flat gold case, opened it, and handed me a business card. "Here. If you change your mind, and wish to explore the... possibilities I can offer you."

He offered his hand again. When I took it, instead of simply shaking it, he bent and pressed his lips to it. Then he turned it over and did the same thing to my wrist. I felt a brief, moist dab of tongue that sent a jolt through me before he straightened up and released me. "I'll see you again soon, Miss Scribe. We can have a longer, much more private chat then." With a polite nod to the others, he left.

I flexed my fingers, murmuring, "Elvis has left the building."

Clark looked puzzled. "Who?"

"It'd take too long to explain." I examined the card. "Hm. Got two numbers here. One of 'em labeled private."

Jimmy said, "Let me see."

I started to hand it over, then got a look at his eyes and pulled it back. "Nuh-uh. You look ready to make confetti."

"You don't need it," he growled, reaching for it.

I held it away. " How do you know? He said he' s doing research that might help with my problem. Isn't he a genius?"

"Yes." Clark didn't look too pleased, either. "An evil genius."

"You make him sound like Doctor Evil."

"Pardon?"

"Never mind. I'm just saying that he's got the brain, he's got the facilities. It's a possibility, like he said."

Jimmy's voice was almost a snarl. "That isn't the sort of possibilities he has in mind."

I blinked at him. Jimmy's an easygoing person. I hadn't seen him this pissed except during the Diana Prince episode. "Well, what's got your undies in an uproar?"

Man, redheads turn pink when they're angry. He started to say something to me, then looked at Lois. "Talk to her. She obviously won't listen to me."

Lois arched one dark brow. "Jimmy, what gives you the idea that she listens to me?"

"Will you people cool your jets? I haven't said I'm going to do anything. But you have to admit, this is the first serious offer I've had of assistance."

I suppose it was a little mean of me to look at Clark when I said that. I think I hurt his feelings. Okay, dammit, sometimes I'm a bitch. But right now I'm a homesick bitch, so I think allowances should be made.

Jimmy threw up his hands, made a noise of mingled disgust and frustration. "Fine!"

"Good."

"Fine! Do what you want. You will, anyway. I need some fresh air!," he snapped, and stalked out.

"And so the legend about redheads' tempers is bourn out."

"He's worried about you, Scribe." There was sympathy in Lois' eyes as she looked after the cub reporter.

"Well, he was downright rude! I think it's piece of my mind time."

I went out to the hall, but it was empty. Neither of the elevators was running, either. But I saw the door at the end of the hall that led to the stairs slowly closing. The only thing up there was the roof.

I made my way up onto the roof of the Daily Planet building, and looked around. I didn't see him. Well, he had to be up here somewhere. There was only one person around here who could fly, and that was the only other way off the roof. I started to explore.

He was sitting behind a large ventilator shaft, completely hidden. I stood, staring down at him, fists on hips. "Well, this is as good a pouting spot as any."

He glared at me. "I do not pout!"

"All right. Sulking, then. What's with you, Olsen?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, come on. It wasn't exactly Jekyll and Hyde, but were talking definite attitude. What's your problem?"

"My problem?" He stood up. "My problem is him practically pawing you, right there in front of me."

He was almost toe to toe with me, and I took a step back. "He just kissed my hand," I protested. "Corny old fashioned."

"I saw the tongue, Scribe. You got any idea what it was like for me to stand there and watch another man taste you?"

"I..." Geez, I know Jimmy's protective, but isn't this a little extreme? "Jimmy, why are you so mad at me?"

"I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at myself."

"Why?"

"Because I haven't had enough guts to do this."

He stepped toward me again, grabbed my face, and kissed me square on the mouth.

Are all guys with Swedish ancestry such great kissers? Book passage right now, girls.

Chapter Twenty-eight: Rooftop Snoggery

Jimmy's POV

Smooth move, Olsen. Piss her off good and proper, then grab her and snog her on the roof. Very suave and seductive. Of course, it's mostly her fault. I mean, she was standing there. Breathing. How does she expect me to resist when she provokes me like that?

I surprised her. Hell, I surprised myself, too, but I definitely surprised her. She feels surprised. Tensed up. She made a funny little sound, kind of like a 'merf'. The soft whiff of her breath and tiny motion of her lips when she did that made me kiss her harder. I'm telling you, it wasn't my fault.

But her lips are still closed, and I'm getting a little desperate, thinking maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Finally I pull away, but I don't let go. Her eyes are still open, and she's looking at me like she hasn't seen me before. I wait for the crack; either a smart ass remark, or her hand across my face. Instead she just says, "Well. Hello to you, too."

"Uh, Scribe... look..."

"I'd like to see you try that again."

"I'm sorry, I just..."

"I said, I'd like to see you try that again."

"Oh?" She's smiling. "Oh.'

This time her lips part when I touch them with my own. I probe gently with my tongue. She tastes like wine and cherries and chocolate, and I feel a definite stirring of interest below my belt buckle. When she starts sucking on my tongue, I begin to get hard. There's something a little different from the other girls I've kissed. It's hard to define, especially with the blood rushing away from my brain. There's a sort of... questioning quality about her right now. Like she's saying, <I""Me? Are you sure about this?" I let her come up for air while I switch grips. I slide one arm around her waist, and grip the back of her head with the other, and start again. The next time we break apart is when I feel her grab my ass. Not that I don't like it. It just startles me. And gets me even hotter.

I lean her against the vent shaft and bury my face against the side of her neck. She jumps, and giggles. "Ooo! Ticklesticklestickles!" I sort of growl at her, and lick a spot just behind her ear, right where her neat hairline runs. She hasn't got much earlobe, it's just a little morsel, but I manage to nibble it. She moans a little, and starts squirming. I move back down to her throat and get to work, drawing the blood to the surface.

But now she's pushing at me, with increasing insistence. "Jimmy? Slow up, honey. Jim. Dammit, Jimmy, no hickeys. How'm I gonna explain a love bite when you were the only other person up here? I can't very well say Dracula swooped down on me, though the tabloid's would probably buy it..." I'm not listening. I'm concentrating on getting that little patch of skin the exact right shade of red-purple.

What finally gets my attention is a painful jerk at my hair, and the hissed words, "Jimmy! The freakin' traffic helicopter is on it's way!" I pull away from her and lean back against the wall beside her just as the machine comes up level with the rooftop. I can see a guy practically hanging out of the side with a camera, snapping pictures. Scribe makes a gesture at him that I believe must be common to both our universes. Anyway, they'll have to paste a decency screening dot on the photo if they ever want to publish it.

She glares at them till they fly away. When I reach for her again, she moves away. "Whoa, Big Red. This is not the time or the place. While I'll admit the idea of losing one's virginity on a rooftop under the wide, blue sky has a certain romantic cache to it... A) I'm worried about the chance that they've invented zoom lenses around here, and B) I'm not fond of the idea of pebbles against my butt."

"Gotcha."

"That being said... Wow." She rubbed her neck. "Where did all that come from?"

"It's been building up for awhile. Since you got that first paycheck, I think. It was the way you grinned at me. And since then there's just always been so much going on... I mean, everyone wanting you."

She frowns, blushing. "That's an exaggeration." "Not by much. So I figured, what chance did I have? I didn't let it bother me when I knew you were... er... close with Clark... and Lois." Boy, and I thought that I blushed. "I mean, they're friends, and they're good people. I knew you'd be safe with them. But when Luthor came in today..." I can feel myself tensing up at the thought.

'Jimmy," She lays a hand on my chest, wanting to make a point with her touch, I know. I want to take hold of her hand and move it down my body, but I don't. "Don't let it bother you. I wasn't all that impressed. And I know that wasn't the real him. I'm not fooled."

I say, seriously, "You think you know him, Scribe. That's what's dangerous. You know what they say about a little knowledge. I know there are a lot of things you know about this world from what you've read in your own. But you've found that a lot of things are different over here from what you've expected, haven't you?" She looks doubtful. "Did you ever imagine Lavender's Green when you were reading those comic books?" She shakes her head slowly. "Or Diana Prince?" She winces, and I'm sorry for bringing up the memory, but she has to understand the way things are.

"I'm just telling you, Scribe, you have to be more careful. This isn't like that comic book world, not where it really counts. Maybe the main characters are always guaranteed to come out the end of the story safe and sound..." I touch her face, needing to have her listen and understand. "but you were never written into this. How can you be sure the same rules apply?"

She slowly pulls the business card out of her pocket, and stares at it. Her voice is hesitant. "But Jimmy... What... what if he really is my only chance to get home? Nothing else has turned up."

"I guess it depends on how badly you want to go back."

She sighs, and her voice is wistful. "I want it pretty bad, Jimmy."

"It isn't so bad here, is it?" I ask gently. "You have people here who care about you, a lot."

She smiles, but it's still a little sad. "No, it's not so bad. It's fun, actually. And it would have been different if I'd had a choice in the matter. Jump into the DC universe and hobnob with Supey, Lois, Jimmy, and the rest? Hell yeah. Have a certain cute red-headed reporter grab my behind and kiss me half senseless? Get outta my way. But I got grabbed, jerked, and flung. And I didn't get to say goodbye."

She doesn't cry, but her eyes are brighter than they should be. "I miss people, Jimmy. I want to tell Lawrence and Alex about Lavender's Green. Oh, and Clive. They'd probably break their necks trying to come over to set up appointments. My wiener dog is probably half dead with worry by now. I go to the store, she greets me like I've been around the world. And my Mom..."

She stops for a minute, gathering herself. "I'm all she has. She's ready to give me up to marriage, but to have me just disappear, with no word, no idea of whether I'm alive or not... I know what that would do to her. Hell, I got separated from her in the mall for about twenty minutes once, and she was reporting me as a possible abductee to mall security. That was when I was thirty-two. Can you understand, Jimmy?"

"I think so. It's not so much that you want to leave us. It's that you want to go back to them."

She nods. "Or get word back, somehow. I don't want to just disappear from their lives. That would hurt more than my being dead, and their knowing it. At least with a death, they could try to move on. With a disappearance... I know my Mom, and my friends. Every time a body was found, anywhere in the USA, they'd wonder. So, I can't discard a possibility just because it might be risky. Understand?"

"Yeah, I guess so. That doesn't mean I'm happy about it."

"Yeah, well..." She smacked my shoulder. "Just don't be such a snot about it again. Don't make me have to bitch slap you in public."

"What?"

"You don't want to know. C'mon, let's go downstairs before one of the tabloids has me having your baby."

We start toward the door. "Having my twins."

"Triplets."

"All born with full heads of hair."

"And the teeth. Don't forget the teeth. Due to the special honey and goat yogurt diet, exclusive article next to the ad for hair restorer..."

Chapter Twenty-nine: Megalomaniacle Musings

Lex Luthor's POV

Hm. She has guard dogs. An entire pack of them. She makes no pretense about it, but I don't believe it is her idea. She doesn't strike me as the sort who would be easy with close supervision. Good. That means that she will make it a point to slip them now and again.

I wasn't lying to her about the research I've been doing on interdimensional travel. I've been interested in it for years. I determined, at an early age, that I would control this world eventually. After I do, what then? Complete power would soon become boring, I fear. So I will need fresh worlds to conquer. Space is one possibility, but this is another. Since the world governments are already racing to go into the depths of space, I decided to investigate the less crowded field of parallel dimensions.

I have several teams based in different facilities working on the concept, and I dedicate a portion of my own time to the research. My latest hope is a certain new crystal that one of my drilling corporations uncovered while sinking a particularly deep well in Iceland.

It appears to be an entirely new element, hitherto unknown. I haven't bothered to announce the discovery yet. Plenty of time for that later, though I may amuse myself by writing a paper on it's discovery and observed properties. It bends light rays in a most peculiar manner, unlike any other substance. I've named it Lexanium. I believe I can be forgiven a bit of vanity.

The first step will be to attempt to utilize the crystal in a viewer of sorts that will allow me to see into the other dimensions. After all, there’s scarcely any point in being able to send or fetch if you don't know what you're going to or fetching from. I want at least a good look at the other place before I risk perfectly good peasants using them as guinea pigs.

What? Of course I'll use humans in the experimentation. Lab rats and monkeys can't very well follow directions or give a sensible report, can they? My God, if you're going to go dragging that civil rights and humanities nonsense into a rational discussion of a scientific endeavor...

Pardon me. You are entitled to your opinion, of course, as ignorant and short sighted as it may be. In any case, I have high hopes for Lexanium.

And while my team and myself are working on finding a way to utilize it, I can also be working on getting closer to Miss Scribe. I will admit that the aura of the unattainable is very attractive. It has been a long time since I actually had to extend an effort to obtain the female companion of my choice. A few traditional romantic gestures is usually all it takes. And if those don’t work, the jewelry usually does. Not this time, though.

Her mind doesn't seem to work in the female patterns I'm familiar with. Like at our first meeting. Her response about how I'm drawn, referring I suppose to my image in the public's mind, was surprisingly sly, but climbing over the desk was an impulsive, childish thing to do. Effective, perhaps, but hardly mature. But when I kissed her wrist, and gave it that small caress, I could feel her pulse speed up. She's aware of me as a man. I find that pleases me.

I don't understand her, and that both exasperates and fascinates me. I'd like to study her at close range.

Very, very close range.

But there's the 'posse' to consider. I'll have to set a few operatives to observe her. Can't formulate a plan without the proper data base, after all. I’m sure it can be done without alerting those who are not concerned. Most people are willing to talk, if the right questions are asked. If the right incentives are offered.

There's one advantage to my diversification of holdings: they are excellent sources of information. I can think of at least one that will give me a good bit of information, honestly offered by the lady herself. A free medical insurance policy, granted with the promise of a hefty donation to a charity she favors, will get me a complete physical work up on her. They'll also have an excuse to ask a good number of personal questions concerning habits and history.

I'll have the mayor suggest it to her. They're going to have that gala ball to benefit the city free clinics next month, that will be an excellent excuse. Her participation would be such a coupe that he'd eat his own young to get her to make an appearance. I like that in a man.

I look forward to seeing what she makes of the cream of Metropolitan society. I have a suspicion that she won't be too terribly impressed. I wonder if she'll wear a dress? No one has ever seen her in one.

Of course, getting her... er, within my sphere of influence would have the added favor of upsetting Superman. He seems to feel in some way responsible for her being here, and by extension, for her dilemma. His reactions whenever one of his friends is threatened have always been most gratifying.

I think I'll make a suggestion to the ball's planning committee about a possible fund raiser. I have an idea that would not only serve my purposes, but I believe would actually generate a good many hefty donations...

Chapter Thirty: Duty to the Greater Good, and 'Free' As a Mythological Concept

Scribe's POV

"Free? I don't believe in 'free'. 'Free' is a mythological concept, up there with the belief that this is the best of all possible worlds. What's the catch?"

"None that I can determine." Lois is looking at the sheet of paper that was delivered from the mayor's office. It came in the mail this morning, and I sorted it out of the usual fan mail. (Yes, it's still coming. Hasn't slacked off that much, either. I'm starting to feel guilty about the rain forests.)

"An anonymous donor wants you to accept full medical coverage for a year. In return, they'll donate the equal cost of the premiums and any expenditures to the free clinic program. Wow, Scribe, that could mount up into some bucks. You could do a lot of good with that, and it would benefit you, too."

"My mama always said if it sounds too good to be true, it probably isn't true. There has to be a hook in there somewhere."

"I can have Superman scan the fine print, just in case, but I really don't see anything. All you have to do is take a complete physical with the insurance company's doctor, answer some questions, and you're signed up."

"Ah-hah!"

"Ah hah, what?"

"A complete physical."

"Yes. So?"

"One word, Lois: stirrups."

"Stirr...? Oh. Yes, that would be required."

"Forget it."

"Really, Scribe. It's little enough to ask, when you'll be doing so much good..."

"Second word: speculum. Okay, second and third: cold speculum. Do I have to move on to cover the part of the pelvic we share with the men?"

"No, I'd rather you didn't. But it's only a few minutes of discomfort, and it would help the less financially able."

"Lord, that's a politically correct term if I ever heard one. 'Poor people', Lois. Oh, all right. But I warn you, I will most likely be in a rotten mood for the rest of the day. You only think a bear with a sore foot is grumpy. You haven't seen what a Scribe with a sore..."

"I get the picture. I'll set up the appointment. What's that other one from the mayor about?"

"Dunno. Gave up my ESP for Lent. But you got one, too. Let's see..." (Rip) "Oo, fancy. Is someone getting married? I usually give them an electric carving knife. No one ever thinks of those."

"Oh, Scribe! We've both been invited to the Free Clinic Charity Gala!"

"Coolness. What, exactly, is a gala?"

"It's an elaborate, festive event. In this case, a fund raiser."

I perked up. "A carnival? Dunking booths? Corn dogs? I hate corn dogs, but you have to have them to get the carnival smell right. Preferably cooking in grease that was changed somewhere around the Roosevelt administration, Teddy's."

"No, no. A ball."

"A party? Hey, I'm up for that!"

"Good. We'll have to get you a formal. Though I don't know, you might be able to get away with a cocktail dress."

"Dress? I thought you said this wasn't a wedding. I already told you, I don't wear dresses, except maybe to weddings. Maybe. Ellen Degeneres wore a pants suit when she was maid of honor."

"Ellen who?"

"Too complicated to explain, but you'd like her. Shame she and Anne broke up. Cute couple."

"But you have to wear a dress. It says 'formal' on the invitation."

"Martha Stewart wore a pants suit to the White House. My God, you can't get more freaking socially correct than Martha Stewart." I pause. What I have been saying just struck me. "Lois, was I just holding up Martha Stewart as an example?"

"I don't know who you're talking about, as usual, but yes."

"I'll wear the dress. If I'm looking to that woman as a role model, I have serious problems, and am probably in need of therapy."

"I've thought that for some time, but I didn't want to say anything."

I slap her bottom. "I do believe being a smart ass must be contagious. You seem to have caught it from me."

"Oh, I was a carrier a long time before I met you. You just seem to make it active."

"There's some stuff handwritten on the bottom, here." I read it, forehead puckering. "Oh, please." I dropped the note on the table.

Lois was reading her invitation. "Well, isn't that novel?"

"Try 'embarrassing.' I'm not doing it."

"Oh, come on, Scribe. It'll be fun. And it's a real honor to be asked to participate."

"No. If they want to set up a dunking booth, I'll be happy to sit over the tank, but for this? No."

"Well! After the spectacle you make of yourself at Lavender's Green, singing, I'd think this would be nothing to you."

"You would, huh? Well, it's different. At LG they know me. And I'm doing something, I'm performing. Fairly well, if I do say so myself."

"And you do."

"Self esteem is healthy. But this thing... Uh uh. A celebrity auction?"

"You qualify. I'm asked to participate, too. I expect they'll include the mayor, the chief of police, some local television hosts, perhaps an actor or actress who's visiting Metropolis..."

"Fine. They'll have plenty of stock without me."

"Scribe..."

"Don't use that tone of voice with me. Guilt won't work."

"Scribe..."

"I am strong. I am invincible. I am..."

"Scribe...'

"...going to hate myself for this, I just know it." I sigh. "Lois, what if no one bids on me? Or I get knocked down for bargain basement price?"

"That isn't likely to happen. They're sure to ask Superman to participate, and I expect him to be the only one who really gives you any competition when it comes to final price."

"What, exactly, does my purchase entail? I don't do windows, and I ain't birthin' no babies, Miz Scarlet."

"Someday I'll understand you."

"Don't count on it. My mother has been trying for forty years."

"Let me see... You would have supper, and spend the evening with your purchaser. Then, at a later time, go on one of several preselected 'dates', arranged by the mayor's office. Museum trips, picnics, etcetera."

"Huh. Well... No nudie bars?"

"Not on the list, no."

"Okay. I guess I can stand a few hours in a dress, for the greater good. God, I hope word of this never gets back to Lawrence and Alex, they'll laugh their collective butts off. Well, if I'm gonna do this, I better see if Clive can do my hair. He'll probably spank me if I don't at least ask."

"Why are you grinning?"

"Mental image. Never mind." I called Attitudes. "Hi, Bettina? It's Scribe. How ya doing? Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh. Bettina? That's usually a rhetorical question. What? 'Rhetorical' is not dirty. It means I didn't really expect an elaborate answer. Because it's the polite thing to do, that's why. Since... Look, let me talk to Clive. Thanks." *Girl could talk the hind leg off a mule, and make sense about every hundred words or so.*

There was a brief pause. Then I heard heavy, rapid footsteps approaching the phone. Clive did love those steel toed boots. "Precious, how lovely to hear from you. What's up, besides my libido at a chance to hear your golden tones?"

"Clive, have you heard about this charity thingie the mayor is sponsoring?"

"The Free Clinic Gala? I should say so. I am besieged by social harpies wanting my magic touch. Philistines."

"I got roped into it. Could you manage to fit me in that day?"

"Darling, do you even need to ask? I'd shift the pope to accommodate you, you know that."

"Yeah, but I'm more fun than he is."

"That you are. Tell me, are they actually getting you into a dress for this occasion?"

I sigh. "I'll never hear the end of it."

"Well, darling, if you're going to do the whole nine yards, I ought to give you the full treatment."

"Which would be?"

"Clear up any excess fur on legs and in pits."

"Wax? Yipe! No way, Clive. That's used as a favorite method of torture in certain totalitarian regimes."

"Not wax, silly. You can't control the heat properly. Besides, I wouldn't want to risk burning that delicious white skin of yours. No, I'll shave you myself."

"Uh, Clive? The first time I tried that when I was a teenager, it was a good thing that sharks couldn't swim up drainpipes into bathtubs, given the amount of blood I shed."

"I don't nick, cupcake. What type of razor did you use?"

"Um... Gillette? Standard double edge safety razor."

"There's your problem. I have a lovely cut throat razor that works miracles when I handle it."

"A straight edge?"

"Ears, precious, ears. Don't you trust me?"

"I let you tie me down and use scissors on me. I guess I trust you."

"Splendid. Since you're going to do it, I will, too."

"You're a braver man than I am, Gunga Din. The thought of waving a razor around my own crotch..."

"I mean I've been asked to offer myself up in the name of charity. I've always loved a good slave auction, but I've never been on the block myself. It should be fun. I'd bid on you, if I wasn't participating myself." "All right. If you and Lois are going to be up there, too, maybe I won't feel like such a dork."

"Sweetheart, you keep referring to dorks. What is a dork, exactly? Do we have them, or are they limited to your home world?"

"A dork is a dull, stupid, boring fatuous person."

"Ah. They're universal, then."

"Oh, yes."

"All right, rose bud. Drop by early the day of the do, and Clive will take care of you. You'll be all sleek and shiny for your purchaser."

"I don't intend for them to get that good of a look, Clive."

"You never can tell. Ciao."

"Lois, they aren't going to be able to, like, check my teeth before the auction, are they?"

"Scribe..."

Chapter Thirty-one: The Efficacy of Glasses as a Method of Disguise

Scribe's POV

"No."

I look at Lois calmly. "You are not coming with me on this shopping expedition."

"But Scribe, I can help you pick out..."

"I said no. Look, Lois, I know how to dress like a girl. I just don't do it. Lots of people know how to play the piano, but never do more than noodle with `Chopsticks'."

"What?"

"Good God, you don't have `Chopsticks'?! You know, `Dum dum dum dum dum dum, dum dum dum dum dum dum, DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM, DUM, dum dum dum dum. Dum dum dum dum dum dum, dum dum dum dum dum dum..."

"I get the picture!"

"Anyway, you're not coming. This is gonna be a total surprise, to everyone. Including me."

That meant going incognito. Because, ya see, it wasn't all that easy to go out any more without... er, collecting an entourage.

It would start out normally enough. Then there'd be whispering, and nudging. Then pointing, and not whispering. Then following. Have you got any idea how weird it is when people are concerned about what type of canned pork and beans you buy? (Van Camps, by the way)?

Eventually someone would get up enough nerve to come over and ask me to sign an autograph. Now, generally I didn't mind that. I only signed `Eleanor Roosevelt' to those who were obnoxious about it. But I have to admit, I really didn't enjoy signing those `unofficial biographies'. My God, the history they gave me! I had no idea I was the love child of the strong man in a traveling circus. Mom never said anything, and I can't help but wonder if Dad knew.

Also the requests to sign body parts always freaked me out a little.

Lately, I'd been feeling a twinge of sympathy for Michael Jackson. Now, that's weird.

Okay, disguises, disguises... A dress would have gone a long way toward throwing people off the scent, but one of the main points of my existence was staying out of dresses, so that was off.

I solved part of it by making a request to Clive. He sent over a lovely, long platinum blonde wig. I had thought something in a subdued brown would be more effective, but he explained that people would be blinded by the gleam, and ignore my face.

But, just to be on the safe side, I decided to try the one thing that I was relatively positive would make me absolutely unidentifiable to the people of this world.

I put on a pair of glasses.

Lois had a pair with a very, very weak prescription that she used for reading. Ice blue kittycat frames. *squeal!* I loved them.

I got into my gear and left the apartment that morning, wondering nervously if this was going to work. I tested it out by going to a local diner for breakfast.

The waitress didn't break her neck to serve me. I wasn't offered a meal on the house. She neglected to keep my water glass filled, got my eggs wrong, and it took ten minutes to get my check. Hallelujah! I was being treated like a normal person again! I was right. Glasses did cause some form of selective blindness over here.

I sallied forth with a lot more sally in my forth than there had been in a long time.

Okay, I'll admit it. It... it was... It was... kindafunshoppingforgirlystuff.

I didn't say that, I never will say that, you can't prove I said that, and I'll deny it to my last breath. Buuuuuut....

I got the easy stuff first: a *shudder* girdle (shame they didn't have a rental policy, cause I only intended to wear that booger once), and hose.

I located a pair of slipper type shoes. No damn heels, not even if the president, the pope, and Elvis Presley were going to be present.

Underpinnings taken care of, it was time to go for the raison d'etre (hey, I gotta get some use out of that $36.95 I spent on the `Learn French in 10 Easy Lessons' tape. Ever notice how they never teach you swear words in those courses? Are they trying to protect their rude countrymen from being attacked by irrate bilingual tourists?) of the expedition.

I hit the formal wear sections. Hoo. Boy. Lemme tell ya. We are talking some out and out torture garments here. Most designed for people roughly the size of a twelve year old anorexic Olympic gymnast. Male.

And expensive? Well, not by 2001 standards, but we're talking salary crunchers by fifties or sixties pay scales.

I'd hit a half dozen stores, and hadn't come up with anything remotely feasible. Then I got an idea. It still wouldn't be cheap, but it would be a hell of a lot less expensive than buying something off the rack.

I made another underwear purchase, and I stopped at a sewing shop, a hobby shop, and an interior design shop. Yeah, and I'm not telling you what I got at any of them, either. You'll just have to wait and see.

When I got back to the apartment, Lois came out of the back, saying, "You certainly got up early this..." She trailed off, glaring at me. "Who are you, and what the hell are you doing in my apartment?" I took off the wig. She looked puzzled. I took off the glasses. She blinked. "Scribe!"

"Ye-ah."

"My God, that was a brilliant disguise! What did you do to yourself?"

"Ya know, Lois, I'm not sure. Maybe I've developed a secret power from my passage through the dimensional rift, and now I should use it for the forces of good."

"Really?"

"No."

I decided that it was a good thing that I was on the side of law and order, cause I could have put on a pair of specs and robbed every bank in Metropolis without fear of being recognized afterward.

Lois swooped on the department store bags immediately, which gave me time to sneak the other bags into my room. When I came back out, she was nodding approval at my selection of undergarments, and hose. "Now where's the dress?" I smiled at her. "Scribe, I want to see your dress."

"Uh uh. It's going to be a surprise."

"Oh, lord, not another Scribe surprise."

"I'm hurt. You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Erm. I just want to be sure you're properly attired."

"I will be legal."

*sigh* "I should know better. It's just that there are going to be a lot of important people there."

"Important to who?"

"Ah. Yes. Well, you're right about that, I guess. You'll never guess who I just found out will be attending, all the way from Gotham city!"

"Don't tell me, let me guess. Batman." "

No. Bruce Wayne. You know the millionaire playboy philanthropist. My, that's a pleased grin."

"Tell me, do you think he'll bring Ro... I mean, Richard Greyson with him?"

"Dick? Maybe. It isn't on a school night. What are you grinning about now?"

"I'm just wondering. Chris O'Donnell, or Burt Ward? Michael Keaton, Adam West, Val Kilmer, or George Clooney? I'm hoping for Chris and George, myself, no disrespect meant to Adam and Burt. It's just, those molded, rubberized suits... grrrrrr."

"What are you talking about?"

"Just being true to my `dirty old broad' frame of mind, Lo. I just hope that this is going to be one instance where this world doesn't follow it's other world comic counterparts."

"Why is that?"

"Because every other gala charity event I've ever seen in comics, television or comic inspired movie gets crashed by some sort of super villain. And I'm not gonna want to have to run in a formal dress."

Chapter Thirty-two: How Illicitly Acquired Information Can Lead to Lechery, and an English Lesson

Lex Luthor's POV

The research is progressing even more quickly than I had hoped. My team has already built a device that will allow me to see into other dimensions. I'm quite pleased with them. I must remember to give them bonuses before I have them disposed of.

What? Well, of course I'll have to get rid of them. Good lord, I can't have anyone else running around with this knowledge, can I? I already have another team working on the second stage of the project. In another month or two I should have the capability to make interdimensional transfers.

I find myself rather excited by the prospect. Imagine all the possibilities for meddling... I mean influencing other worlds. Add to that the fact that this will be excellent Scribe bait, and you can see why I'm pleased.

Oh, yes, I'm still interested in her. I think it rather surprises my closer subordinates. Generally speaking, women do not hold my attention for long. A few encounters, and I grow bored. Usually I settle some sort of lavish parting gift on them to insure a smooth separation. Unnecessary, but practical. It's worth a few thousand here and there to not have to deal with the emotional drivel.

A new ritual has been added to my morning routine now. Besides the papers I receive (Metropolis, Gotham, New York, London, Paris, Moscow, Tokyo, Beijing... Well, I must keep track of what goes on where I have interests, financial and personal) to peruse with my morning repast, there are several reports on the comings and goings of Miss Scribe. I'm learning a good deal about her habits and routines. I must say, I'm curious to see what she does with those supplies she purchased in the hobby and decorator shops. I can't for the life of me imagine what it will be.

And that disguise she used when she went shopping, very, very clever. What? Yes, of course I know about the disguise. I have photographs. Because I specifically instructed the private goons assigned to watch her building to follow any unknown quantity seen leaving the building, that's why. Well, it was only common sense, wasn't it? I knew she would want to slip out occasionally, and she's become too much of a public figure to do that easily.

It was really rather ingenious. I was only certain by comparing the surveillance photos with a number of others, using forensic graphing techniques on the facial features. What? Oh, it's just something I came up with while trying to determine the best way to hide the identity of any deceased that authorities might get hold of. Why? My, you are a prying sort, aren't you? But I'm feeling rather tolerant today, so I won't take offense. You truly do not want to offend me. It was simply an intellectual exercise. That doesn't satisfy you? How unfortunate. But I'm in a good mood, so I'll forgive your rudeness. This time.

The good mood? Yes, you're right, I don't have a genuine cheerful mood all that often. But I've had a piece of good news, you see.

Oh, I suppose I can tell you. There's nothing you can do to interfere with my interests. After all, you're just a reader. And one in another dimension, at that. Quite an interesting one, too, I might add. I'm looking forward to... um, extending my interests over there.

Now, as to the good mood. It's because of one of the pieces of information I received about my current obsession. As I surmised, she accepted the free health insurance. I knew that including the donation of matching funds would tip the scales in my favor. As much as she tries to hide it, she seems to have a wide altruistic streak. Very useful.

In general, she seems to be in good health. There was a notation that she was advised to lose weight. The nurse (who forwarded this copy of the information) noted that Miss Scribe replied to this with a comment about the doctor's possibly unnatural relationship with his mother, noted a well used ash tray on his desk, and told him to worry about his butts before he worried about hers. Delightful.

The item of interest cropped up in the gynecologist's report... What? Yes, I suppose it does qualify as 'dastardly' by most standards. But then, I don't measure myself by most standards. And I'm sure that by now you've deduced that my interest in the woman is not strictly platonic, so it makes eminent sense for me to be interested in her sexual health and history.

In this case it was the doctor himself who forwarded the information. There are no actual cash transactions to link us, but my companies do tend to favor him as physician of choice in their health plans. Quite a coincidence.

One of the first things he asks his patients before beginning an exam is if there is any possibility that they might be pregnant, so that he can take proper precautions to ensure no unfortunate accidents if the woman's pregnancy is tenuous. He gave an exact quote of her reply. "I don't think so. Why? Have you seen a star appear in the east recently?"

Oh my.

Well, you can see why that grabbed my interest, I'm sure. Or perhaps not. I've learned through sad experience that assuming perception on the part of others can be very... er, unperceptive. So I will say that, during the course of the exam, the doctor determined that her hymen was still intact.

In other words, she's a virgin. And if that is still too technical a term for your prosaic little mind to grasp, I shall resort to the vernacular.

She's cherry.

Oh my, oh my, oh my.

You know, I had come to believe that 'post adolescent virgin' was a bit of an oxymoron. Oh, I suppose I'd better explain that. *sigh* Oxymorons are conjoining contradictory terms. Examples: deafening silence, ethical politician, jumbo shrimp. Post adolescent virgin. You get my drift. Good God, the state of education in the nation today... Perhaps you slept through English?

I read that report twice while my espresso got cold. Well, she certainly has most of the world fooled. They seem to consider her a cross between Catherine the Great and Lola Montez. And no, I will not explain that reference to you. Go invest in a history book or two.

What a rare find. These days, if one is interested in virgins, one is generally limited to flat chested near children, which may be fine if one is a bit of a pedophile. I am many things which the world finds reprehensible, but that I am not. Even an evil genius has his limits.

I've decided that this needs to be an acquisition, rather than a mere one time appropriation. That means that there will have to be accommodations provided. I'd better have those preparations started. Lead lining will take a little while to install...

Chapter Thirty-three: Bat Ramblings

Bruce Wayne's POV

It's been quiet in Gotham.

Lord, there are five words I don't get to use too often.

But it has been quiet. They've improved security at Arkham asylum, and it's been months since any of the villains escaped. Selena is going through one of her lucid periods. The less mad super criminals are all safely tucked away doing extended stints in various correctional facilities. That leaves just the usual muggers, rapists, murderers, and thieves. And even they seem to be on some sort of holiday. Dick blames it on a harmonic convergence, but I think he's just trying to annoy me. Teenagers can be such a pain in the butt sometimes.

The inactivity is making both of us a little antsy. We patrol, but nothing comes up. Oh, sure, there was that beer snatch we halted last night, but come on. Three half drunk teenagers trying to make off with a case of Moosehead Beer. Moose head? What's wrong with young people these days? Anyway, the clerk was grateful. I had to restrain her from kicking the miscreants after I had them tied up. Seems this isn't the first time they've done this, and she was out for blood. Dick said I should have turned her loose. Considering some of the language the boys had used, I was half tempted.

*sigh*

I need a vacation. If I'm honest with myself, I've been riding the ragged edge of burn out for years. It's easier since I've had Robin with me, but still... Like Alfred tells me, I can't be responsible for it all. I think it's time for a respite. A brief one, but even a couple of days off should work wonders. Of course I won't announce that I'm leaving the city, and the thought that I might still be roaming around will be enough to put a bit of a damper on the criminal element.

No, I'm not vain. I'm just realistic.

Any way, I think I know what I'll do. Alfred sorts out all the begging mail that comes in. Every day I get up to a dozen or more letters asking for donations or sponsorships. Those are the ones addressed to Wayne Manor. I don’t even try to estimate the numbers that come to the office and my attorneys. A couple of days ago he passed on one that sounded interesting.

Metropolis is having a charity event to fund their free clinic program. That's a worthy cause, and I would have sent a donation in any case. But I'd like the chance to see Kal-El again. It's been awhile. And the celebrity auction they’re going to have sounds fun. I could buy a date there. This would be one instance where I knew for a fact that the woman was going out with me for an unselfish reason.

Yes, yes, I know. "Poor little rich boy, whine some more. Wish I had the chance to deal with your burdens." Well, let me tell you, it's no picnic when the sincerest affection you can be sure of from a woman comes from a half-mad ex-super criminal who believes herself to be a cat. I'm not really complaining, mind you. Selena's feline aspects have certain benefits. But she has a tendency to claw during the more passionate moments. I get enough scars in my work, so I'm not too happy about acquiring more during recreation.

I contacted the Metropolis mayor's office and got a list of the celebrities who are going to be up for auction. They've done pretty well for themselves. They should raise a good deal of money. My old buddy Kal is going up on the block. I have to go to see that, if for no other reason. I wonder what will happen if some very determined, horny matron gets her hands on him? He’s such a straight arrow, he might just die of shock.

Lois Lane will be participating. I've always liked Lois, very sharp woman. I'm rather glad she isn't located in Gotham. I might fear for my secret identity if she was. So, she's a possibility. There are a couple of models and actresses... Boooor-ing. Oh, nice enough. If you want to turn off your brain for an evening.

Huh.

Now this is interesting. Scribe Mozelle. I've been hearing about her. Sounds like a very quirky individual, but then I suppose she's allowed, being from another dimension.

As a matter of fact, one of my advertising executives mentioned her as a possible spokesperson for Wayne Industries just the other day. I vetoed the idea. All right, our image may be 'stuffy', it may not be 'hip' or 'with it', but we've always maintained a certain amount of public dignity. Whatever this woman is, she is not dignified.

And besides, I don't think she would do it. I don't recall seeing her endorsing a single product or company. As far as I know, this charity event is the only thing she's leant her support to. That says something for her. I'm not sure what, but it definitely says something. She's either too dumb to see the possibilities, or doesn't give a damn about promoting herself. I tend to think it's probably the latter. I've seen the pictures, and she does not look like a stupid woman.

Um, er, yes, I've seen a number of the pictures. Quite a few, in fact. All right, most of them. No, I do not have a scrapbook. It's a file. And I don't keep any of those manipulated photos. You know, the one's where they graft her head onto another woman's body, who is... Uh, no I haven't actually seen any of those. *Looks at ceiling* Except for the one that fell out of Dick's notebook. I'm glad I had 'The Talk' with him a few years ago. Of course, he kept snickering while I was trying to explain things, so I'm not entirely sure how clear it was.

I'll have Alfred make the arrangements: tickets, reservations, limo service. Better get him to make them for two. It's on the weekend, so Dick might like to come along. He may even want to participate in the auction. After all, he's eighteen now, so he can make transactions on his own. And I know he's been saving his allowance. Those stock options I've given him for Christmas and birthdays are panning out pretty good, too, so he'll be able to bid competitively, if he wants to.

I just hope he doesn't decide to bid against me for Scribe. That could get a bit awkward...

Chapter Thirty-four: The Batphonecall

Lois' POV

She is driving me crazy!

*sigh*

So what else is new? I suppose I'd be feeling her forehead if she wasn't driving me crazy. Insanity inspiring is Scribe's natural state.

I'm a female investigative reporter. Hello? Investigative? Female? And she won't give me a freaking hint about what she's going to wear to the gala! She's enjoying it, too. I can hear her giggling in her room while she's doing... whatever it is she's doing.

All I know is that it involves a great deal of swearing. And pain. Her fingers have been just dotted with needle punctures. I'm getting worried. Still, she seems pleased with how it's going.

I think Jimmy wanted to ask her to the gala, but since she's going up for auction, she'll be going 'stagette, or possibly stagelle or stagine. One of those politically incorrect gender specific terms.', as she put it. I asked her to explain 'politically correct', and she just made a gagging sound.

I'll admit I was a little worried that Luthor would keep bothering her. He isn't a man to be put off lightly, so I'm a little surprised that he hasn't been in contact again, trying to wheedle her into a private meeting. Well, perhaps surprised is an improper term. Or would that be 'politically incorrect' term? Maybe I shouldn't try to use Scribe lingo till I have it fully explained. Anyway, I think a better term would be 'suspicious'.

Oh, Lex Luthor can remain quietly in the background, but he only does so when it suits his purpose. And it's more the quiet of a jungle cat crouching in the greenery than actual peace. He's up to something. The only question is, is it world domination, or Scribe domination he's planning this time?

When I tried to explain to her the lengths this man was willing to go to gratify even his smallest whims, she more or less patted me on the head, mentioned something called an exfile, and said I would get along marvelously with someone named Fox.

"Or maybe Byers, Langly and Frohike. Plots, plots, plots. On second thought, you should stay away from Frohike. I think you'd end up creaming him."

And she says our world is strange.

Bruce Wayne is coming into Metropolis tomorrow, arriving a little early to do some sort of business for Wayne Enterprises. I've managed to wrangle an interview.

Oh, okay, I'll be honest. There wasn't any wrangling on my part. It was handed to me on a silver platter. Yesterday I got a phone call. I was a little wary about answering it. I'd had the number changed twice to protect Scribe and I from cranks. It still wasn't one hundred per cent effective, and I kept a police whistle next to the phone, just in case. Scribe really liked that. Every time I see a man on the street, looking confused and poking his finger in his ear while he asks someone to repeat something, I wonder...

Anyway, the voice on the other end of the line was... interesting. It was very precise and dignified, with an English accent. "Have I the pleasure of addressing Miss Lois Lane?"

"Yes, this is Lois Lane." I picked up the whistle and held it ready, in case he took that 'pleasure of addressing' bit to unseemly lengths.

"Miss Lane, this is Alfred Pennyworth. I am calling on behalf of Mr. Bruce Wayne. He will be in your city in the near future. The Daily Planet has previously expressed an interest in an interview. If they are still interested, he would be pleased to speak with you."

"Yeah, right, pull the other one."

"I beg your pardon?" The voice remained polite, but somehow the tone managed to convey 'Young woman, you are obviously deranged.'

"As if Bruce Wayne would call me to set up a meeting. I don't know what kind of game you're playing, Pennywhistle, but..."

"One moment, please, Miss."

There was a pause. I don't know WHY I didn't just hang up. There had been no vulgarities so far, so I guess I was just curious to see where this would end up. Scribe came out of her bedroom, shaking her hand, then sucking on a fresh pin prick. "Whassup?"

"Some guy named Pennywise claiming to be from Bruce Wayne..." I didn't get to finish my sentence. She squealed like a kid on Christmas morning, spotting a bicycle behind the tree.

"Pennyworth! Oh, goody goody gum drops! I was wondering if Bruce was really going to be around. Seemed like too much to hope for."

"Scribe, this isn't him! This is just some guy..."

A... well, mellifluous is a good word. A mellifluous voice flowed out of the receiver, oozed into my ear, and send a bolt of warmth down past my belly. "Right you are, Miss Lane. It was shamefully remiss of me not to contact you personally. What must you think of me?"

Scribe had leaned close, and caught the words. Her eyes rolled up briefly, and she whispered, "Oo, I can't say what I think! I believe it's still illegal in most of the states around here."

I shushed her, hoping he hadn't heard, but I could hear a dark, liquid chuckle. "That would be Scribe?"

"Yes, it would. Sorry about that." I tried to shoo her away. She stuck out her tongue at me, and put her head on my shoulder, the better to hear. "She's eavesdropping. A shocking habit of which her public knows nothing."

"But would most likely forgive her. Hello, Scribe," the voice lifted a little.

"He-llo backatcha. How's things in Gotham?" She'd leaned her face very close to mine to speak into the receiver. Her mouth was only about an inch from mine. It was very distracting.

"Dull. That's why I'm going to be attending the gala instead of just sending a donation, as usual. I hear that you are going up on the block."

"Yup. I have been wheedled into participating in a shamelessly archaic flesh vending ritual. An anthropologist might be interested in the mystical ties to sacrificing oneself for the greater good. Personally, I think it's an excuse for rich horny people to indulge in a little fantasy role playing."

I pushed her away. "Please forgive her. I think she lost her self censorship ability when she came over."

"I never had one," Scribe said archly.

"No problem. She's very refreshing."

"You know, Lois, sometimes I get the feeling that I'd have to talk nasty about people's mamas to be considered rude around here." She leaned toward the phone again. "It's all ya'll's fault, you know. You will keep letting me stretch the envelope."

"Scribe! Go away!"

"No, Miss Lane, please. I wanted to ask if she'd mind coming along when you do the interview. I know she'll probably be swamped with admirers at the gala, and I'd like a chance to meet her beforehand. Dick will be accompanying me, and I know he wants to meet her." Another rumbling laugh. Scribe fanned herself. "I think he wants her to sign a poster, or something." His voice lifted again. "Would you mind, Scribe?"

"Ooh, I don't knooow... Lemme think... yeah. Be happy to meet you and Burt... no, Richard, right?"

"Right. Dick. Well, then. I need to finalize a few things. Shall I call back tomorrow to set up a time frame, Miss Lane?"

"That would be fine. Oh, and tell Alfred I'm sorry I doubted him."

"Will do."

Raised voice. "Good bye, Scribe."

"Buh-bye."

As I hung up, I said, "Scribe, that was so totally rude..." She grabbed my head and kissed me. "Mph. Thank you." I kissed her back. I really enjoyed it, but I'd come to the conclusion that Jimmy or Clark probably stood a better chance with her. She cared, but I wasn't ready for someone who was still vacillating about their sexuality. I was always going to love her, but we weren't going to be a couple. I think she knew that, too, but she's just a physically affectionate person. She's kept it bottled up for so long, she's about to explode all over some lucky SOB.

"Sorry Lois. But I yam what I yam, and that's all what I yam. Whatever the hell that is. The filter between thought and action is about as effective as a slice of Swiss cheese after a mouse got hold of it."

"Do you promise not to embarrass me if I take you on the Wayne interview?"

She looked at me as if I were crazy. "No."

I sighed. Things were normal.

Chapter Thirty-five: Totally Gratuitous Near Smut Episode With Clive, the Leather Hairdresser, Just 'Cause I Feel Like It

*snip snip* *Paaaaause*

"Clive..."

*pant*

"Dammit, Clive..."

"Quiet, darling, or the gag goes back in."

"I don't know how you expect me to stay quiet when you've got your hand..." *moan* "Oh, my God..."

"Now, if you don't be quiet, I'll stop. Do you want that?"

"No sir."

"That's my lamb."

*tousle* *comb*

"There. Aaaand... there." *high pitched whine* "And... there." *whimper* "Oh, and most especially... there!" *Shriek!*

"My, that was a good one, wasn't it, pet?"

"You're going to kill me one of these days, Clive."

"Nonsense. This really gets the blood circulating. Just look at that delicious pink flush; over your face, down your throat and..." *peek* "Yes, indeed. Right down to the bosum."

"Okay, now that's taking advantage."

"Of course it is, love. Why do you think I tie you to the chair every time?"

*mumble*

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, I don't think so. Tell Uncle Clive right now, you naughty girl."

"It's personal."

*sigh* "Must I get out the peacock feather?"

"All right, all right! I said that, um... well. I said that I'mgonnahavetostartbringingfreshpantieswithmewhenIcomehere."

"Oh. Scribe..." *sniff* "That's the sweetest thing that anyone's ever said to me. Precious, you have got to get devirginized pretty soon. I'm all about control, you know, but..." *stroke* "You really are a severe temptation."

"Thank you. Will you untie me now?"

"Not just yet." *sit*

"Oof! Damn, you ain't a big dude, but you're solid."

"As a rock, sweet thing. Feel." *push*

"Oo." *short, but active pause* "You know, all this time I've been coming here, and I still haven't actually... uh..."

"Viewed the exhibit? That can be taken care of. Be patient for a moment. Button flies are sexy as hell, but they do slow one down a bit."

"Uh, really, you don't have to..." *unbutton unbutton* "Not on my account..." *unbutton unbutton* "Unless you really want to..." *unbutton unbutton* *longer pause* "Whoa. Day-um!"

"Well, dear, you've had only a thin layer of leather or denim between it and various parts of your anatomy many times. You didn't suspect?"

"I've always been lousy at esimation. But... whoa."

"You said that."

"I'll say it again. Whoa, Nellie!"

"You say the sweetest things. Lean forward."

"Clive, I'm not sure I'm ready..."

"Darling, shut up and open your pretty mouth."

"Yes sir."

"I just love a good little submissive. As often as I can."

"Clive, I don't know what to do."

"Relax, and I'll drive. Just remember the first haircut, and expand on that a little. Some of these experiences may be a bit more skilled than others, but I've never actually had a bad one."

*quiet, save for snuffling, and soft, wet sounds*

"Mmmmm. Precious, you had nothing to worry about. You're doing spectacularly so far."

*mumble*

"Don't try to speak with your mouth full, or I'll have to spank you. Just keep doing that...yesssssss..."

*Breathing speeds up*

"Scribe, darling? I'm going to push now. Don't panic. Just remember to breath through your nose."

*quiet grunt*

"Oh, God, I didn't expect you to be able to do that your first time. Do you know how hard it is for some people to do that? You..." *low humming sound*

"Shit!"

"Clive! What the hell's going on it there?! Did your blow drier short circuit and zap you, or what?"

*Panting*

"Everything is fine. Go away."

*Breathing slows*

"I'm sorry about that, love, but I didn't have time to warn you or pull out. You... you surprised me. That doesn't happen often. Where on earth did a virgin learn about deep throat and humming?"

"I'm smart. I read books."

"Well, remind me to send flowers to your librarian."

Chapter Thirty-six: Two Men Eminently Deserving of Thrown Panties

"Scribe, I'm begging you."

"No."

"Pleeeeease."

"No."

"Pleeeeeeease."

"Lois, for the last time, get away from me with that dress. I am not going to wear it to the interview."

"C'mon, Scribe! It's Bruce Wayne. Don't you want to make an impression on him?"

"Duh! Am I the terror of donuts everywhere? Of course I want to make an impression. Hey, my hormone levels were fine, last time I checked."

"Then why..."

"Listen to me, okay? Look, sit your little A-line clad butt down and listen. How many women does Bruce Wayne meet in a year?"

"Oh, gosh. I don't know. Hundreds?"

"And how many of them are wearing dresses?"

"Um... well, I guess all of them."

"So who's going to stand out from the crowd?"

*sigh* "You know, you can be right in the most irritating way."

"I knooooow. It's one of my endearing qualities."

"Your hair looks good. How did you get that bruise on your wrist, though?"

*cough* "I... um... jumped at the wrong moment."

"But how..."

"Never mind, Lois."

"And you never would have struck me as the sort to have a standing hair appointment. I wouldn't think you'd have the patience for it."

"Clive has a way of inducing patience. So, are you through arguing with me about my clothes? Can we go now?"

"Yes, I suppose so. He offered to take us to lunch. I hope you don't mind, but I accepted on your behal..." *splutter* "For heaven's sake! I like the kiss, but wait till I finish my sentence, would you?"

"And miss the chance to catch you with your mouth open?"

*sigh*

*

Deep in the heart of the Metropolitan Plaza, outside the Imperial Suite

"Whoa. Palm trees."

"Scribe, leave those alone."

"I just want to check and see if they're coconut or date."

"Will you please stop that!"

"Geez, Mom, chill. It's not like I was trying to climb it. Why are you so nervous?"

"Scribe, it's Bruce Wayne."

"Looooois? I think you're a groupie."

"A what?"

"Have you met him before?"

"I was on the floor at a few of his press conferences."

"Ever get the urge to fling your panties at him while he was up on the podium?"

"Scribe! I never... You... How did you know that?"

*snicker* "Lord, fan girls forever."

A thin, elderly man with a spine still as straight as Rock Hudson used to look opened the door. "Good afternoon, ladies. Miss Lane, and Miss Scribe?"

"Often imitated, never duplicated. Ow! Damn, Lois, you have sharp elbows!"

"Please, do come in. Mister Wayne will be with you shortly. In the meantime, Master Dick will keep you entertained. If you will excuse me..."

A tall, well built young man advanced, hand outstretched in greeting. "Hi!"

Scribe was grinning ear to ear. "Well, helllloooo, Chris O'Donnell version! How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

Scribe looked at Lois, lifting her eyebrows. "Legal." Lois almost choked.

Dick Greyson, on the other hand, acquired a grin almost as wide as the one Scribe was wearing. "Wow, for once the magazines weren't exaggerating. You are outrageous."

She rolled her eyes. "This from a man who lives in a world where they have psychotic super villains who dress up as cats."

"Point taken. I was wondering, could I get you to sign a poster?"

"Ah, fan boys forever, too. Sure. Though I warn you, depending on my mood, you might have to keep it away from children, or else slap censorship boxes on it."

It was a poster sized rendition of the photo that had pretty much launched the frenzy, the cover shot of EXOTIQUE. Scribe uncapped a felt tip pen, letting the nib hover over the shiny paper while she considered, the tip of her tongue peeking from the side of her mouth. Worried, Lois said, "Scribe, remember, he's only barely legal."

"Party pooper. Heck, I'll just quote Bill 'n Ted." She scrawled at the bottom 'Be excellent to each other. Party on, dudes! Scribe.'

Dick studied it, smiling. "Cool! Wait'll my friends see this. 'Be excellent to each other. Party on, dudes.' Great sentiment."

"I can't claim it originally. I don't know who wrote the screenplay."

"Huh?"

Lois patted him on the shoulder. "You'll get used to it, if you're around her long enough."

Scribe snorted. "Yeah? You haven't."

Another very large man entered and came to them, hand extended. "Sorry to have kept you waiting, ladies. I'm Bruce Wayne."

"Yes, you certainly are!" Scribe cooed. She lifted her eyes toward the ceiling and whispered, "George Clooney version. Thank you, Lord."

Seeing his puzzled look, Dick said, "You'll get used to it. So Miss Lane says." *snort* "Miss Scribe seems to be of a different opinion."

"Well," he clapped his hands. "Where shall we go?"

"That depends. Is this Dutch, or... Ow! Don't sit next to this woman. She has elbows like rapiers."

"My treat, of course."

Scribe looked over at Lois. "Look, I had to ask. Maybe it's just taken as a given over here, but where I come from..."

"Scribe..."

"And since you don't have ATMs around here, and any check I wrote would be from way out of town..."

"Scribe!"

"Shutting up now."

Dick looked interested. "ATMs? Are those anything like BEMs?"

"Some people think so. I'll explain while the grown ups talk."

"How about La Polonaise? Scribe, I understand they have a full slate of your drinks available now. Oh, but it is rather early..." Bruce ventured.

"You don't expect me to drive or operate heavy machinery, do you?"

"No."

"As far as I know, I'm not scheduled to perform brain surgery, so a couple of drinks won't hurt."

"Scribe..." Lois groaned.

"He brought it up, Lois. Anyway, I doubt that they have a kareoke machine, and I'm seldom inspired to sing along with the type of elevator music they play in fancy places, so you should be safe from all but the absolute minimal embarrassment."

Lois gave Bruce a long suffering look. "Translation: I'll only want to sink halfway through the floor."

The back seat of the limousine was a tiny bit crowded, but no one seemed to be upset about that. Scribe had somehow maneuvered so that she was sitting between Bruce and Dick, and was looking about as smug as was humanly possible. "I can now die happy, surrounded by male pulchritude."

Bruce leaned over her to speak to his ward. "Now Dick, this is the kind of girl you need to spend more time with, instead of those cheerleaders. She'll improve your vocabulary."

Scribe was looking as though she was thinking of leaning forward a little and nipping the millionaire somewhere intimate and tender. Lois said dryly, "Oh, he could get all kinds of education from her."

Scribe had crossed her legs, and was bouncing her foot. Dick seemed to be mesmerized by the flex of thigh muscles under the denim. She leaned close to him and said in a conspiratorial manner, "Did you know that in my world some people will pay up to, oh, two hundred dollars for a pair of jeans?"

He looked astonished, then smiled. "Gold rivets? Or do you come in them?"

"Dick." Bruce's voice was mildly reproving, but his eyes twinkled.

Scribe pursed her lips. "Let's not get started talking about me coming in jeans..." Lois had a coughing fit. "Though there was that one time I met Hugh Jackman at a convention..." She trailed off with a nostalgic smile.

Dick seemed interested. "Yeah? Do tell."

She batted her eyelashes at him. "You're too yooooung."

"I'm legal."

"I like you."

Lois had the feeling that this situation was rapidly escaping her, given the unlikely possibility that it had ever even remotely been in her control. Scribe seemed to be in 'force of nature' mode again. Lois couldn't really blame Wayne and Greyson for succumbing. When 'the unintentional multidimensional diva' (as Scribe occasionally referred to herself) got wound up, the safest, if not most sensible, thing to do was to hang on and let her wash over you. So that was what Lois did.

There was an awkward moment at the restaurant. It was one of those very chi-chi places that tried to cater to the trendy while not offending the straight laced old-money. At the entrance to the dining room, the maitre de was ecstatic to receive Bruce Wayne and party. But then he got a look at Scribe. She was, at that time, standing with her back to him, very close to Dick Greyson, busily charming the pants off him. It was, in fact, pants that caused the problem.

The maitre de coughed, nodded at the pair, and said quietly, "I'm afraid the young gentleman's attire is not suitable for the dinging room."

Dick peered over Scribe's shoulder. "Hey, this is a perfectly decent suit!"

"No, no, sir. Not you. I was referring to the other young gentleman." Scribe turned around, eyebrows doing a rapid climb, and an even quicker lowering. "Oh... um..."

She stalked over to the now very nervous waiter. He backed up as she invaded his personal space, but she didn't stop till he was against a wall, and they were toe to toe. Then she said softly, "Now, granted that I only got a B minus in biology back in college, but I still believe that these..." She bumped him with her bosom. "Qualify as secondery sexual characteristics."

"Oh, Miss Scribe, I am sorry..."

"You got that right."

"But from the back, the hair... and the jeans... I thought..."

"You might want to stop here before you get that size nine all the way down your throat."

"Yes. Sorry. But really, the dress code..."

She glanced at Bruce and said matter of factly, "It's a little known fact about me that the term 'dress code' causes my blood pressure to rise. I was in junior high before I could stop wearing dresses *shudder* to school every freakin' day! But, hey," Her voice was suddenly syrupy as she turned back to the maitre de. "I can understand your position."

He wilted with relief. "You can?"

"Of course. And I'm sure you'll understand mine. Can you direct me to a phone?"

"Why, yes. Right over... Why do you need a phone?"

"Well, I figured I'd go straight to the National Inquirer with the news that you were the only restaurant so far to deny me service due to my attire. Should do wonderful things for your publicity. Or..." She pointed to Lois, who for once played along by whipping out a small notebook. "Would you prefer we begin with the local news services?"

They were seated quickly.

During lunch, Scribe flirted, and Lois asked questions during conversational lulls. Bruce was ever polite, never ignoring her. Well, not entirely. There was that one question he didn't respond to for a good ten seconds. She thought he was giving it careful consideration, till she noticed that, while she was placidly sipping a glass of water, Scribe had her other hand on his knee, fingers dancing a tarantella.

*Thank God she only had one Screaming Orgasm. One more, and she might be sitting in his lap. Or Dick's lap. I think she's been running her foot up and down his leg under the table. It's amazing how co-ordinated that woman can be when she wants to. "Will you be taking a date to the charity gala, Mr. Wayne?"

"Hm?" Scribe, who'd ordered something called Chocolate Annihilation for dessert, was industriously trying to lick a dark smear off her lips, and he was distracted. "Oh. No, no. Not this time. I intend to bid in the celebrity auction." His eyes never left Scribe.

"Yeah," Dick looked interested. "I was meaning to ask you if I could have a, say, two or three year advance on my allowance."

"You can't participate. You're still to young to engage in legal contracts."

"You made that up."

"Possibly. Hit the law library when we get home."

Dick tipped his head toward Scribe. "That's all right. I've been saving. I can wait on that car."

Bruce's eyes glinted with amused competitiveness. "I'm warning you, Dick. I'll be willing to forgo that Toulous Latrec print I've had my eye on."

"I don't really need that college fund. I already have full scholarship offers."

Scribe beamed at Lois from her seat between the two men. "Okay, Lois. If I drop dead of a heart attack any time soon, make sure that the obituary reads, "She died happy, with an absolutely disgusting self satisfied smile on her face."

Chapter Thirty-seven: Robin!Leach, the Grand Unveiling, and a Brief Reference to My Favorite Slut and Asshole

Notes: If you have the weird sort of sense of humor that would let you enjoy this series, you probably don't need to be told who Brad and Janet are. If you really, really don't know, ask me.

"All right, Scribe, I've been really, really good about this whole gala dress thing. I believe you have to admit that I've been remarkably patient."

"You've been a brick, Lois." *quick pinch to investigative reporter posterior* "Or is that 'brick house'? I get the terms mixed up sometimes."

"Stop it. Quit trying to distract me, it won't work."

"No? It always has before."

*giggle* "No! I'm serious. I want to see what you're going to wear."

"No."

"Scribe! Look, I can handle the secrecy, I can deal with the smugness, I even took that 'neh neh neh neh neh neh' when I asked you about that rattling sound I've been hearing. But this... What the hell are you planning on doing with a bolt of black crepe?"

"Going into mourning for the state of good taste and common sense in America today?"

"Aargh!"

"You're so cute when you're angry." Scribe twirled a pair of scissors around her fingers like a gun in a western movie, then snapped the blades together briskly. "I learned this move from Clive. Along with some others that we won't discuss right now, but which will some day undoubtedly make someone very happy. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

"But the gala is tonight!"

"Which is why I have to hump it. Luckily the last part of the ensemble doesn't require a lot of fancy stitching. But Clive is planning on coming over to give me a touch up before he escorts us to the shindig, and Clive... Well, Clive requires a person's full attention."

Lois grumbled, but she had her own last minute preparations to attend to. Clive had offered to style her hair, but she had a regular stylist who would have been devastated if she'd been passed over. She couldn't understand Scribe's attitude. She'd said something about 'taking the road less traveled, and how that could make all the difference.

When Clive showed up, she was ready in her simple white formal. Scribe had bitten her lip almost raw when she saw the chiffon and petticoats, but had sworn that Lois looked fantastic in it. "Only you can carry something like that off without looking like a... a meringue."

Lois opened the door to the hairdresser, whom she'd met casually once or twice, and gasped. "Clive! You look stunning!" She winced. "Oh, I'm sorry. That's a sort of girly word. You look very handsome."

Clive snorted. "Precious, if I thought that the best I could manage was 'handsome', I'd hang it up. I'm gorgeous." He was. For a moment she thought that his tuxedo came with black velvet pants, then she realized they were suede. And the cummerbund was comprised of dozens of tiny braided black leather thongs.

She indicated the cummerbund, and said, "That's an interesting fashion statement."

Clive nodded, purring, "And it's useful, too." He cocked his head, giving her a quick once over. "I could show you sometime."

Scribe came out of her room carrying a large sack. "Clive, quit trolling. I need you to get what you're going to do, done."

"You're not dressed yet?" Lois was alarmed.

"Lois, chill. We have an hour and a half, two hours. I don't have to strap myself into my garments like you do. It'll be quick." She jerked her head toward the bathroom. "C'mon Clive."

"But... he can't be in there with you while you dress."

Clive and Scribe exchanged looks. Scribe looked at Lois. "He can't?"

Clive frowned. "I can't?"

"Well," Lois faltered. "You're a man."

Both Scribe and Clive looked at each other again, and nodded, Scribe vigorously. "Dear, if it bothers you," Clive soothed, putting a hand on Scribe's shoulder and guiding her toward the bathroom, "Just think of me in the same light as a physician. I'm going to minister to her needs." As he said this, he was shutting the door. Lois heard Scribe's peal of giggles, and Clive said genially, "Oh, hush!" Then the giggles were muffled, followed by a squeal. Lois began to reconsider her worry about hurting her cosmetologist's feelings.

"Okay, precious, strip. I need to do your hair before you put on the dress."

"But it doesn't go on over my head."

"Strip anyway."

"Okay."

Lois sat down. Lois tried to ignore the fact that it didn't sound like it was HAIR getting done in there for the next twenty minutes or so. Finally, after a couple of strangled yells, male and female, she heard Clive say, "Well, if they could come up with entertainment like this at the gala, I'm sure they could fund all the little old clinics they wanted. Okay, let's see the dress." Lois strained her ears. "That's it? It's..."

Lois was leaning her ear against the door. She had no idea a feminine fist applied to the other side would be quite so jarring. "Back off, Lo! Get away from the door, or I'll tell Clive about the nickname you acquired in junior high after you got locked in the closet with the class clown."

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Lois, you know me. Think for a minute." Lois thought, sighed, and moved away from the door.

She heard Clive murmur, "Remarkably well trained for such a forceful woman. What methods do you use, darling?" There was silent for a minute or two. "Mmm, yes. I begin to see what you were striving for. It's going to look completely different on." More silence, then a shriek. "Oh, I can't let you go out like that!"

Lois hung her head and groaned, but Clive continued. "No, love, really! It's absolutely criminal. You need to be classified as a lethal weapon. I would have brushed up on my life saving techniques before I came over if I knew you were wearing that." A dark chuckle. "Weeelll... Maybe I'll end up getting to give mouth-to-mouth to some pretty person who hyperventilates."

"Works for Superman."

Clive opened the door, and exited, grinning. "Don't worry, doll. You won't feel like walking ahead of her."

Lois' mouth was dry. She had to admit, if Scribe had wanted to cause even more interest, she had succeeded. The media had gone bananas trying to find out what she was going to wear. There had been fashion spreads with different designers' takes on what she should wear. Scribe had griped, "I wouldn't mind so much if the friggin' models weren't all sizes zip to three! I couldn't wear most of those clothes when I was in grade school." Paused. "And had been sick with my tonsils for about a month. I mean, they'd have to get anorexia to look healthy." "What's anorexia?" "Tell me again: WHY am I trying to leave this world?"

Scribe swept out...

I mean, really swept out. Lois' mouth snapped shut. "Scribe!"

"Well, you were wondering what the black crepe was for. Camouflage tactics." She was enveloped from head to foot in a swirl of black cloth, including a hood that was drawn forward so that her features could just barely be seen peeking out.

"I don't believe this. Who are you supposed to be?"

"Snideness will get you nothing but my envious admiration. The closest I can come to an example would be the togs of the Evil Emperor Whatsisname in the Star Wars saga, or possibly Darth Vader, sans helmet, but since that means bupkiss to you, don't worry about it."

"You're going to have to open that thing to open doors..."

"Not with my trusty hairdresser here." There was a knock on the door. "And it's about to get opened anyway. That'll be Clark, I expect."

"I'll get it." Clive went and opened the door. "Well! Hello, Blue Eyes!"

"Down Clive." Clive stuck out his tongue at her. "Don't do that unless you mean it."

"You know, Scribe," Lois said dazedly, "You seem a lot more... um... knowledgeable than when you first arrived."

Scribe inclined her head. "Thanks to various people in present company, I have received an education the State Board of Texas never dreamed of, believe me." Her three companions exchanged glances. Lois and Clark blushed, Clive smirked. "Let's get this caravan moving. The natives are restless."

She wasn't kidding. The sidewalk outside the apartment was mobbed with paparazzi trying to get shots to rush to the printers. Flash bulbs went off, but there was a grumble of disappointment when they saw her cloak. One of them was stupid enough to creep up and try to sneak a peek under it while Scribe was waiting for the chauffeur to open he door of the limousine Bruce Wayne had sent for him.

The ambitious, but incredibly idiotic, photographer found himself lifted off his feet by a big, dark haired, grim faced man on one side, and a slightly smaller, blonde, equally grim man on the other, and deposited head first in a partially filled refuse can. He didn't get the photo, but he sold his story to his own newspaper later for a tidy sum. It took him a week to get the smell out of his hair, though.

They swung by Jimmy Olsen's apartment to pick him up. He was taking Bettina, one of Clive's ditzier shampoo girls, as his date. When they got in, Scribe took one look at Jimmy's plaid cummerbund, and Bettina's little white sixties suit, and squealed, "Brad and Janet!"

*Blink.* "Who?"

"Looong story! Just watch out for guys wearing fishnet hose and mascara tonight, y'all."

Bettina, perplexed looked at Jimmy. He shrugged. "I find it safest to just let it wash over me."

Things were a bit squeezed in the back seat of the limo, even with second seat that faced the back let down. Six warm bodies, including three substantial male ones, crammed into a space designed for perhaps, say, four-fifths that amount of flesh. Scribe had once again managed to maneuver herself between two men: Jimmy and Clark, this time. Clive pouted a little at not being seated next to Clark, but proceeded to charm the knickers, almost literally, off Lois. Her petticoats kept poufing up, and Clive was very solicitous, and very thorough, about smoothing them down.

As they neared the Metropolis Grande Plaza, where the gala was taking place, Clive said, "All right, people. Let's plan this escape..."

Bettina wrinkled her nose, looking remarkably like a blonde rabbit. "Escape?"

"Darling, peek down the street and get a look at that horde awaiting us around the entrance. Note the friendly, and may I say absolutely luscious looking, horse mounted patrolman directing traffic. God, I must find out where he got those boots. Believe me, if we are not organized, our trip from limo to lobby will be a route."

The other's readily agreed. "Now, if I'm not mistaken, I see that they have a safe passage corridor cordoned off, and a few burly bellmen acting as escorts. I suggest that Lois and Bettina hop out, and allow themselves to be whisked in. We all know who's going to cause the greatest uproar, and don't smirk, dear, it's one of your least becoming expressions. I suggest that we three big, strong men form a triangle around Scribiepoo and get her up to the entrance. I see the official photogs have massed up there. They'll want a brief photo op, then we can pop right in. How's that sound?"

"Well, it isn't storming the beaches at Normandy, but it sounds logical to me. I went through enough with this damn dress, including blood loss and submitting to wearing a strapless bra, to want to make a splash unveiling it." Scribe commented.

No one else had any objections. The police kept the mob mostly on the sidewalks, so the car managed to get up to where the cordoned walkway began.

The door to the limo popped open, Bettina and Lois popped out, and were up the walkway and into the lobby in a swirl of chiffon and a clatter of high heels. Then Jimmy, Clark, and Clive got out. The anticipation of the crowd grew, their buzz rising.

When Scribe emerged, swathed in funereal black, the noise rose even higher, and continued to climb as she was swept up to the entrance. She kept her head down so that even her face was obscured.

At the entrance, Scribe murmured, "Damn. Shades of the Oscars." Because there were a couple of camera crews, and one radio announcer set up. The celebrity entrants were all expected to pause for pictures and a brief interview. Lois had given them scant shrift, and they were slavering for something more substantial.

Jimmy, bless 'im for not having an ego problem, quietly stood aside. Clark and Clive made a few innocuous comments for the media. Well, Clark was innocuous. Clive was genetically incapable of being vanilla, but he toned it down a tad, out of respect for the event.

Scribe had deliberately hung back. Now she was beckoned forward by an eager announcer. Camera's were whirring and flashing madly, and she hadn't even taken off her cloak yet. Because of the hood, they couldn't see the ironic smile on her face as she stepped up to the microphone. *All right, y'all want a diva? Tonight, you get one."*

She looked at the announcer.

*Jesus, God. How the hell did a Robin Leach clone make it over here?*

"Well, there's no doubt who the big draw is tonight at the Metropolitan Charity Gala! She's fascinated the entire world for months, now. Her every move and mood is exhaustively chronicled, yet still she remains a tantalizing woman of mystery..."

*Yadda yadda yadda.*

"And now this interdimensional diva..."

*Oh, lord. At least they can't see me roll my eyes.*

"Proves that her heart is just as big as her..."

*Butt?*

"...fame. Scribe has generously offered..."

*Offered, my fanny. I got guilted into this shindig.*

"...to allow a portion of her valuable time and her sought after presence..."

*I'm pretty sure that's rotten grammar. I hope your highschool English teacher is listening, and sends you a nasty letter.*

"...to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. All in the name of charity!"

*Hooray for HOLL-ywood!*

"Scribe, will you say a few words? And..." *chuckle* "I'm sure everyone is dying to see what you're wearing tonight. Speculation has been rampant."

"What?" She quickly threw back the hood and tossed the cape off with a flourish. "This old thing?"

Stunned silence. Pandemonium.

She glittered, head to toe. Her hair was covered by a woven chaplet of gold cords, threaded with crystal beads. The dress itself was strapless. It started just at the swell of her breasts, a faint shadow of cleavage could be seen. Her shoulders and arms were completely bare and, since the dress was midnight blue, they looked startlingly white. The dress itself was really not much more than voluminous length of silk, wrapped. But...

There was a sash just under her breasts, giving the gown a sort of Empire flair. It was a braided, satiny cord, with long fringed tassels at the end. It was, actually, a curtain pull from a drapery store. There was a thick line of the same crystal beads that adorned her hair along the neckline. And the rest of the dress was covered in sprays and starbursta of silver and white sequins and beads.

The flashbulbs popped so thick and fast that one of the patrolmen's mounts had a hissy, tossed the (luckily uninjured) officer, and made off through the scattering crowd. It was found a couple of days later wading in the duck pond in Metropolitan Park.

Scribe, knowing what was expected, and feeling sarcastic, did a slow pirouetted, and stopped with one hand on her hip, said hip canted slightly. In an affected voice, she drawled, "Scribe is wearing a Scribe original, called 'What the Hell, If I Gotta Wear A Dress, I May As Well Go Glitz'. It is Deep of the Night Midnight Blue, with an elegant lashing of white and silver sparklies, to catch the eye of that hard to please millionaire. Just the thing for when you plan on doing a little flesh peddling for a good cause. Sash is courtesy of Wanamaker's Window Dressings, sparklies courtesy of the Dunnit Myself Hobby Shop. Entire creation courtesy of blood, sweat, tears, and hours of cursing. And I hope you people appreciate it, because not only am I wearing a dress, but I succumbed and put on hose, a bra, and unsensible shoes. But I drew the line at the damn girdle."

"I'm so pleased to hear that."

That smooth, amused voice was impossible to mistake. Scribe winced. *Oh, brother. I will go showing off.* She turned to the large, well dressed, handsome, sexy, evil, possibly sociopathic, and bald, man behind her, twiddling her fingers. "Hi, Lex."

Chapter Thirty-eight: The Migratory Habits of the Bat

Scribe's POV

The reaction to the dress was everything that I could have hoped for. I'm not naturally very persnickety about my clothes. Usually if it's clean, legal, and people don't laugh in my face too blatantly, I'm satisfied. By golly, though, I had worked on this puppy. I think I'd channeled every scrap of girly energy I'd ever had since Dad's seed hit Mom's egg and they decided to go with the XX instead of the XY. It was one magnificent splurge of femininity, and I had decided to take it off the scale.

Now that I was confronted with Lex Luthor, I wasn't sure if I could go through with the final part of the unveiling.

Oh, yes. There was more. Didn't I mention that? How remiss of me.

*snicker*

Anyway, the man was standing there, looking at me. You couldn't call it a leer. Lex Luthor was too urbane to leer. And it wasn't an ogle. Ogling was far too vulgar for him. We're talking perlustration, contemplation; conspection, conspectuity; regard, reconnaissance, gazing, perusal... Yes, those are all real words. I looked them up. Gah, if you don't trust me by now... Oh. That's right. *giggle8 Yeah, trust me. And the check's in the mail, you're beautiful, don't ever change, you know what I mean? My girl will call your girl. We'll talk, we'll do lunch. So leave a message on my machine...

Sorry. Got side tracked by a Weird Al Yankovic moment.

Anyway, the man could stand there and look perfectly civil to the entire world while giving you a look that made you think that maybe Thing had broken loose from the Addams family, because it sure felt like a hand was running over you under your clothes. He noticed that I was feeling the... um, weight, and smiled.

Have I ever mentioned that Evil and Sexy are not necessarily mutually exclusive concepts? It's damn disturbing, lemme tell ya.

"I am glad you decided not to deal with the modern equivalent of combination body armor and chastity belt." His eyes said he was particularly glad about the absence of the chastity belt function. "But my dear, you said you're wearing hose. How are you managing that without a girdle?" His eyes glinted, and he cocked his head to one side. "Surely you're not being naughty enough to wear a garter belt?"

He seemed to have a talent for totally ignoring everyone else in the world. I had God knew how many people watching me right now, if you count the TV cameras, but it felt like we were alone somewhere very, very isolated. I wasn't sure whether I liked that, or it scared the snot out of me.

But I'd planned this thing for a long time, and I wasn't going to back down from my final show stopper. In any case, Clive would never have let me live it down. Believe me, you really don't want to give an already playful Dom an excuse to tease you.

"No, no belt." I was unknotting the satin curtain cord that fitted up under my bazooms (hey, I'm allowed to be politically incorrect about my own body, okay?). I'd practiced this move a couple of times with Clive in the bathroom before we left. I just hoped it would work out here. In any case, he saw what I was doing, and moved into position nearby.

They hadn't been able to tell, but the dress was actually hung on the cord, and could be removed like a cloak. Which I did. I whipped that sucker off and around my head like a matador using his cape. Or, perhaps more realistically, a stripper in burlesque's heyday getting ready to sail a portion of her costume out into the audience. I didn't do that. I wasn't about to let those trolls have souvenirs. I was saving that baby. It flew through the air toward Clive, and he caught it neatly.

That left me standing there in what roughly resembled a skater's outfit, the brief skirt a miniature version of the one I'd just whipped off. The hose were Midnight Blue, too (I had refrained from wearing fishnet. Hey, even I have my limits). They were held up by garters encrusted by the same beads and sequins that adorned the dress. I looked ready to tap dance my way through a 1930's backstage musical. "Just garters."

I should have covered my ears and eyes. I'm lucky I didn't get hearing loss from the noise the crowd made, or blinded by the flashes.

Oh, these people were so easily amused. I can't even tap dance.

I haven't regretted all that many things in my life. Getting so drunk the night Diana Prince trapped me in the bog at Lavender's Green was one of them. Not buying stock in Yahoo when I could was another (though recent events have taken a bit of the sting out of that). At that moment, taking off that skirt in front of Lex Luthor was another.

I'm sure his eyes didn't actually glow. I mean, you'd have to be, like, Scott Summers for that, and he's Marvel, right? But I got the impression that at that moment he was considering eating me: figuratively, and, possibly, literally. I began to wonder if I could make it back to the limousine.

"A most charming ensemble," he purred. "I have no doubt that there will be knock offs flooding the market by the end of the week." He stepped forward, reaching out. "Now, why don't I escort you in?"

"Oh, I'm afraid that isn't possible, Luthor." The calvary rode over the hill in the form of Bruce Wayne. Let me tell you, the calvary never looked that good in a tux. Dick Greyson was right behind, and Clark, Clive, and Jimmy brought up the flanks. Hey, I did have my own posse!

Luthor wasn't the type to be easily faced down, though. "Very few things in this world are impossible, Wayne. What makes you think this is?"

"Because the lady already promised to allow me to escort her in."

My, the man lied beautifully. Must have had something to do with all those corporations he headed up. But this was precisely the out I was looking for. I took his hand and gave him the best social smile, the one that was sort of a cross between Marie Osmund and Stewardess Barbie. "Yes, I'm afraid I did."

Luthor's eyes narrowed, but he still looked pleasant. I began to suspect that his expression could remain bland while he removed someone's spleen with a grapefruit spoon. "I believe that, as an auction participant, she has no official escort till after she has been, mm... vended."

"True. So until such time as I purchase her company," Here he kissed my hand.

Eeeep!

Considering my reaction to that, and the one Lex had given me at the Daily Planet, it seemed that I had a fetish I didn't know about. I noticed Clive paying attention, and looking interested. I guessed he was taking mental notes, and I expected a new kink in the routine the next time I went in for a wash and trim. "We will rely on civilized, social custom. Firsties."

"My. How boring." But Luthor sketched a polite bow. "Soon, my dear. Soon." He went in.

Bruce smiled at me. "You do seem to get yourself into awkward situations."

"Worse than a yoga beginner. Thank you."

His eyes glinted. "Don't go giving me altruistic motives. I wanted a closer look at that outfit." He leaned over and peered. "Are you really wearing a strapless bra?"

"To tell on myself, yes. You can't achieve this sort of aerodynamics without either cloth or silicone."

"Silicone?"

"You'd be almost as much fun to explain that remark to as Clark would be, but for different reasons."

"You don't make a lot of sense, but you're fun." He took my arm and started to lead me back into the hotel.

"Hi Scribe." Dick grinned. "Nice outfit you're almost wearing."

"Oh, that one was old when Adam used it on Eve."

"Okay, how about 'You look so good you ought to be shrink wrapped to protect public morals'?"

"Oo, nice one! Two points for that, and I'd like permission to borrow it somewhere down the line."

Inside, Lois hurried over. "What's the commotion? There was such a noise out what the hell are you wearing?"

I gave her a look of pained modesty, spreading the fingers of one hand across the top of my bosom *and that darn bra did kind of give a person a lovely cleavage*. "Lois, please! Such language. My poor virgin ears can scarce take such crap."

"Funny, ha ha. Clive! Give her the rest of that thing, and she can wear it as a shawl or something."

Clive smoothed the material. "Oooh, I don't think so. The view is far too pleasant. I'll hang on to it, in case it gets really chilly and," he smirked, "she doesn't feel like warming up the natural way."

Dick said, curiously, "Natural way?"

"If you'll step into the cloak room with me for a moment, I can demonstrate."

"Clive."

"You're right. It is a bit early. I should at least have some champagne." He flicked Dick's bow tie, smiling, "Later, precious." and wandered off toward the bar.

"Dick?" I said. "Sweetie, don't go anywhere with Clive unless you really want an alternative form of education."

He looked bewildered. "Okay."

There was a little mixing and mingling to be done before the auction got started. I met the mayor: as unctuous an individual as any I've ever run across. I felt like I really ought to make things easier for him by flipping my skirt up, since he was trying so hard to kiss my butt.

They had a band, and not the little guitars and drums kind like at Lavender's Green. Lawrence Welk would have swallowed his accordion with envy. I stood on the side of the dance floor watching the couples. Bruce asked, "Would you like to dance?"

I glanced at him. "I don't really know how. Is that the Fox Trot, the Turkey Trot, or some other animal named terpsichorean delight?"

"You've got me. I just basically hang on to my partner and shuffle."

I brightened up. "Hey! Then I can dance!"

"Outstanding. Shall we?"

I stepped up to him, fluttering my eyelashes demurely. "That's to be determined at a later time."

He grinned, taking my right hand and putting his right hand on my waist as we started to move. "I like you."

"Mutual, big guy." We danced for a little while. "Tell me, are you Catholic?"

"Mm, no. Why?"

"Oh, no prejudice, or anything. It's the way you dance."

"The way I dance?"

"Waaaaay over there. Like you expect sister Mary Elephant to show up and rap us with a yardstick if anything but our palms touch."

"Oh." The smile broadened, the arms tightened. I ended up flat against a nice, big, warm, solid expanse of millionaire. "Is that better?"

"Infinitely. Now, let's see... hm. I can't quite get the head on your shoulder, so you'll have to settle for the cheek on the chest." I demonstrated. "Don't worry, I'm not wearing make-up, so I won't smudge you." I glanced up. "That is, of course, unless you really and truly want to be smudged. Then I could figure something out."

I felt something very interesting (no, not that, more's the pity). "Sir, your hand seems to have migrated south and found a roost on my posterior."

"Yes, it does seem to have done that. Is it time for it to fly north again?"

"Oh, I didn't say that. I was just making an observation. That area..." I bit my lip. "No, I'm not going to say it."

"Say what?"

"Never mind."

"Tell me."

"Uh uh. It's too awful. I could be deported."

"C'mon."

"Nope."

"Tell me, or I'll goose you."

"You say that like I'd try to avoid it." The hand tightened a little. "Oh, all right. But you'll regret it. I was just about to say that... I'm really ashamed I thought this up. I managed to censor myself on it, and if I can do that, it should tell you something."

"Scribe, if you don't tell me what you were going to say, I will have a double handful of gluteus maximus, and embarrass both of us."

"Huh, you forget, Tuxboy. I'm used to being embarrassed in public. But okay. I was about to say... Don't worry. That area has been designated as a wild life preserve."

Oo, that was a good one! Laughter complete with head tossed back, eyes squeezed shut, and a rumble in the chest I could feel.

"Really, Wayne." The drawl sort of cast a bucket of cold water on everything. Luthor was standing nearby, watching. "Isn't it bad form to go handling the merchandise before you pay for it?"

The impulse control switch must've been down again, or else I was feeling particularly spunky with Batman wrapped around me. I stuck my tongue out at him.

Mistake. He looked real interested. "Oh, yes, I wouldn't mind at all. Later." He strolled off, sipping champagne.

I rested my forehead on Bruce's chest again. "See if you can't have my remains shipped home somehow, would you?"

Chapter Thirty-nine: Revelations in a Cloakroom, and Not Your Every Day Blue Light Special

Scribe peeked over Bruce's shoulder as Dick tapped him on it. Bruce didn't look around. "Whoever you are, go away."

"Aw, c'mon, Bruce. I want a turn."

Scribe gave Dick a goofily suggestive smile. "Young man, I am not a doorknob, despite what the tabloids say."

Dick poked his guardian. "C'mon, Bruce. I'm ready to admit I won't stand a chance against you in the auction, so be a pal and let me have a little time with her before you snaffle her up."

"Oh, all right." Bruce stepped back to allow his ward to cut in. "I'm going to check out that champagne." He reached over and tapped Scribe on the nose. "Don't go wearing yourself out. We have a long night ahead of us."

"Promises, promises." She cheerfully moved into the arms of the younger man. "Hello. How's the junior division doing?"

"A little ticked. I really wanted to buy you, but heck, I'm a realist. Bruce's pockets are a lot deeper than mine, and there's one or two other millionaires floating around. Will it hurt your feelings if I don't bid on you?"

"Of course not."

"Good. I mean, I do all right for a teenager, but I'm not in this class financially, so there's no reason to frustrate myself."

"An extremely wise sentiment for one so young. Besides," she leaned over and whispered in his ear. "If I hang around long enough, you can ask me over to stately Wayne Manor for a slumber party, and I won't say no."

Dick grinned. "Sounds like fun. I don't ever get to have sleep overs."

She arched her eyebrows. "Dear boy, there would probably be very little sleeping involved."

"Yeee-ah?" He sounded interested. "What would be involved?"

"I could further your education. I could teach you to make s'mores."

"Sounds good. A lot of people are worried about keeping me intellectually stimulated. That guy Clive just offered to teach me something he said you showed him, called the Lambada. But he said we'd have to go in the cloak room."

Scribe rested her forehead briefly against Dick's shoulder, but she was smiling. "The man will get arrested some day. Though he'd probably thoroughly enjoy the strip and body cavity search. Dick, dear, it isn't your intellect he's interested in stimulating."

"Really? Hm." He looked around. There was a table of hor d’oeuvres near the bar, and Clive, champagne glass in hand, was trying to decide between the crab puffs, caviar, and pate. He finally leaned over the table to scoop some Beluga onto a toast point. Being Clive, he automatically and without thinking presented his rump to the best advantage as he did so. And it was quite a vantage.

Dick's eyes got bigger, then narrowed thoughtfully. He couldn't understand, though, why Scribe started singing softly (she later told him the tune was by some queen or other) "Dum dum dum. And another straight bites the dust..."

Scribe had decided to spend one night actually playing up to the media instead of dodging it, in the hopes that, like most of the public, they would lose interest in that which was freely offered. Therefore when a couple of photographers approached timidly, she paused in her dance and said mildly, "Eek. Get away from me with those cameras, you horrid men, you." Then she threw a leg up on Dick's hip and tossed her head back while the shutters snapped.

When they walked away she said, "I hope you don't mind about that."

"Are you kidding? You just made me a legend among my peers. C'mon, let's go get you some champagne."

She followed him to the bar. He got a soda and a champagne, and turned to her. She smiled sweetly and plucked the soda out of his hand. "Um, Scribe? The champagne was for you. That was for me."

"Sorry. I can't stand the taste of champagne." She offered the glass. "You can have it back, if you want. I don't have cooties. Or you could drink the champagne."

"No, he could not." Bruce plucked the glass out of his ward's hand and sipped the drink.

"Oh, come on." Scribe patted Dick's shoulder. "When I was growing up, eighteen was the legal limit."

"It isn't here," Bruce said firmly.

"Fine. Stuff tastes nasty anyway." She tossed an arm around Dick's neck and offered him a sip of her drink, which he accepted this time. She whispered in his ear, "I've never been able to see what the fuss was over what was to all intents and purposes decaying grapes."

"Decay is sometimes seen as a mark of superiority." They all looked at Lex Luthor, who had come up on their blind side. He smiled. "The aged wine or cheese, beef allowed to mellow till mold must be scraped from it, game hung until it is positively offensive, ancient crumbling structures revered while modern edifices are scorned." He paused a beat, gazing pointedly at Bruce. "Old lines and old money boosted over the nouveau-riche."

"I give that line of insult a 9.1. It's witty and subtle, but you lose points because the image of mold being scraped off beef will keep me from enjoying a steak for the next month." Scribe declared.

Lex looked at Bruce. "You're hogging her, Wayne."

"She's a free woman. She doesn't belong to anyone."

"For now."

"You," Scribe said pointedly, "Seem to be taking this a tad too seriously. Hello? Ersatz? Faux? Falshung?" She looked at Bruce. "You're an international playboy. Give me some foreign words for 'fake'."

"Non vrai. Väärennetty. Podrobik. Enough?"

"Yes, thank you. I just love a man who speaks in tongues."

"Yes, you do, darling." Clive was giving Lex 'The Look'. You know, the one that makes customers quiver and assistant-cosmetologist melt into small puddles of apprehension. Clive was not Best Pleased with Mr. Luthor. Scribe knew it was basically because Clive was allergic to ass holes of any variety, but she was enough of a realist to wonder if the distaste would have been mitigated if Lex wasn't completely missing one of Clive's major turn-ons.

Lex was not impressed. His 'bad ass' factor went up several notches in Scribe's opinion. He just smiled nastily and strolled away again. Scribe studied Clive's scowl. "Let me guess: You want to get him in your dungeon and torture him."

He looked offended. "Good God, no, precious! I only do that with people I like."

Dick was looking interested again. "Dungeon?"

Clive smiled and crooked a finger at him. "Come with me, dear heart, and I'll explain."

"Clive..."

"Pooh. Who dampened your blanket, Scribe?"

"Patience."

You think Superman has X-ray vision? You should have seen the look Clive gave Dick Greyson. That nice tuxedo should have melted. He looked back at Scribe. "Promise?"

"This outfit has no pockets, so I don't have any finances available, but if I did, I'd lay a bet on it."

"Good enough for me, lambie. I'll behave. Until."

"Ladies and gentlemen," cam a microphone-magnified voice. "Will the participants in the Celebrity Auction please make their way to the stage?"

"Oh, good. I never was all that good at waiting."

"Tell me about it."

"Hush."

They made their way up to the stage, in front of the orchestra. The Daily Planet group, Lois, Clark, and Scribe, stood together, Clive joining them. The rest of the crowd (and there did seem to be a good many of them) gathered before them.

The mayor got on the microphone and started his spiel about helping the free clinics with their generous donations. Clark noticed that Scribe was staring off into the distance, looking bored. But one hand was held near her face, fingers and thumb pressed together, palm flat and facing out, and she was slowly rotating her wrist back and forth, as if she were waving at someone, her head nodding wearily. "Scribe," he whispered. "Who are you waving to?"

"I'm not waving, I'm commenting."

"I don't understand."

"Know any American Sign Language, Clark?"

"Um... no."

"Well, when you do this..." she did the sign briskly a couple of times. "It means 'lecture', like a school lecture. And when you do this..." She repeated the gesture several times, tilting her head, rolling her eyes, mouth pursed wryly, "It means 'talk talk talk talk talk talk talk..."

Light dawned. "Oh."

"Yes. In other words 'yadda yadda yadda.' Oh wait, I think he may actually be about to say something significant."

"We ask all bidders to remember that a bid is considered a legal contract, and steps will be taken to collect it, so please, don't bid unless you can afford it. Cash or checks are acceptable. Now, it there's no further business...?" Brief glance around. "We can begin. Our first celebrity up for auction will be..."

"Scribe!" It was a roar of a chorus from the crowd.

"Oh, hell no!" she demured. "I will not be the opening act. Let someone else be the guinea pig for this body bargain sale."

So the first up was the head of the Water Commission. And, judging from the desultory bids, many people were thinking, "This is a celebrity?" Still, he was knocked down for a respectable $250. The weather girl for channel 13 got $400.

When Clark was put up, the bidding slowed down again. Scribe shook her head. *Dumb asses would probably walk over a chunk of real gold for some iron pyrite. She stepped up beside him, took the microphone from the startled MC's hand and said, "Folks, you're showing all the good taste and common sense of retarded buffalo herders. Look at the man!" Scribe walked around him, running a finger at about shoulder height. There was an interested murmur from the crowd.

Clark blushed. Scribe pinched his cheek, squealing, "Couldn't you just eat him with a spoon? He's very strong, has a lot of energy, and is a l-o-t of fun." She draped herself against him and fluttered her eyelashes at the crowd. "I speak from personal experience."

She handed the microphone back to the MC, and bidding started up again, much more briskly this time. Clark was knocked down at $1,500 to a very attractive fortysomething matron. Scribe had the feeling that Clark... er, Superman... uh, Kal-el... Oh, hell. All three of them were going to get lucky tonight.

Clive came up on the block a little later. The MC said, "And now, a real celebrity. Clive, who has recently become internationally known as hairdresser to the great and famous! What am I bid for..."

"Five hundred!"

It was the highest opening bid so far. And it came from Dick Greyson. Everyone stared. He blushed, but said, "If no one else bids, I get him, right?"

Bruce, standing next to him, said, "Dick, I think we need to have a talk when we get home."

"Sure, whatever. Do the going, going, gone bit!" he demanded.

It wasn't that easy, of youse. There were other bids. As it topped $3,000, they gradually dropped out. Finally it was only Dick and an elderly lady with improbably gold hair. The bidding ended when Clive snatched the mike and hissed, "Miranda, if you don't stop it right now I will never touch your hair again! You'll be cobweb grey in two weeks, and you know it!" Miranda stopped. Dick won Clive for $3,500.

Clive didn't bother with the stairs. He just went to the edge of the stage, hopped down, and strode over to Dick. Taking his arm, he said, "Come on, sugar. I need to go check on the rest of Scribe's outfit in the cloak room."

As they wound their way through the crowd, Scribe heard Dick saying, "Are you going to further my education?"

"Oh, God, yes!"

Chapter Forty: A One-On-One (Literally) Tutoring Session in the Cloakroom

"Good evening, gentlemen. Leaving so soon?"

"No, precious, we're not. Are you in charge of that whole big cloakroom all by your little bitty self?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, it's time for your break."

"Um... I don't think they scheduled me a break."

"What? Those slave drivers! Well, snookums, you must simply take a break. I insist."

"But there won't be anyone to watch the cloakroom."

"We can take care of that, can't we, Dick?"

"Uhhhh... Sure. I guess so."

"But sir, I really don't think I should. Besides..." *pause* "I make pretty good tips, and I'd be missing some prime tip time."

"Oh, I see. Well," *rustle* "How about that?"

"Actually, I think I'd miss at least twice that much."

"Opportunistic, mercenary little wench, aren't you? I can admire that." *rustle*

"Thank you, sir. Yes, I think I need a good, long break. In fact, I don't really need to be back till this shindig starts to break up."

"Clever girl."

"Oh, and the door to the cloakroom does lock from the inside. Bye."

"Frankly, Clive, tending the cloakroom wasn't exactly how I pictured spending this evening."

"Dear, have you ever been in a cloakroom?"

"Er... Come to think of it, no."

"They're absolutely fascinating. Come with me."

"Okay. Hey, you don't have to drag!"

"Sorry. I get a tad over-enthused sometimes. Just step on ahead of me would you?"

*bump click*

"Man, it's dark in here! Why'd you shut the door?"

"It's so noisy out there."

"Why'd you lock it?"

"I'm hoping it's going to get noisy in here."

"Huh?"

"I'm just assuming this is innocense. I don't really believe you're that stupid."

"Hey! I have a 3.85 grade point average!"

"Darling, you are far from average. Now, let's venture a little deeper into this dark wilderness, shall we?"

"Okay, but I really can't see a thing right now."

"Just take my hand, and I'll lead you."

"Sure."

*reach fumble grope*

"Oops."

*deep sigh*

"Uh, sorry about that."

"No need to let go on my account, cutie. Why don't I take your hand?"

"Maybe that would be a better..."

*grope*

"...idea. Whoa."

*fondle pant*

"Um, Clive? That's... That's not my hand."

"I knooooow."

"Just so you're sure."

"Oh, look. A clear space between the coats."

*bump press*

"Is it me, or is this room getting smaller, and hotter?"

"Well, precious, something is getting hotter, but it definitely isn't getting smaller."

"You're... uh... You're a 'hands on' instructor, aren't you, Clive?"

"Oh, you noticed." *hump*

"Oh, man."

"Yes, dear. Quite a lot of man."

*zip*

"Cripes! I... I'm not sure I'm ready..."

"Let me show you a trick that will take all problems with decisions away." *rustle* "Have your eyes adjusted a bit, dear? Can you see this?"

*squint* "Oh, yeah!"

"Not that, you flatterer. No, this."

"Your cummerbund?"

"Yes. Best leather. Now."

*wrestle wrap tie hoist*

"Hey!" *tug tug* "Well, tonight is full of surprises. I certainly didn't expect to be hanging from a coat hook."

"I prefer a nice X cross, but we don't have one of those, so we make do."

"You know, I could get out of this if I wanted to."

"Really?" *lean* "But you haven't. Can I take that to mean that you don't want to get out of it?"

"I'm thinking about it."

"Mm. Well, I'd better distract you, then." *zip* *rummage* "Oo. Silk boxers! Very nice. Silk has a lovely texture, don't you think?" *rub*

*moan*

"I'm sorry. What was that?"

"Do that again."

"What? This?" *rub* *moan* "Or this?" *hump*

"Omygawd."

"Gracious. And we still have a layer of clothing to go."

"That isn't my fault."

*snicker* "Oh, I like you, lamkins. You're fun." *rustle* *sliiiiiiiide* *grunt* "Oo, strong hips you have there, rich boy."

"I'm not rich. Bruce is rich. And I do a lot of acrobatics."

"Do you? Oh, we have to arrange another meeting somewhere a little less confined. But for now..."

grab* *humphumphumphumphumphumphump*

"Oh, geez!"

*purrrrrrrr* *humphumphumphumphump* *grip squeeze stroke*

"Clive!"

*nip* "Yeeees?"

*pant pant pant*

"You're welcome, precious."

"You... uh... you didn't... I mean, I didn't feel..."

"Not yet. Let me show you something else you can do with this 'hung on a hook' trick."

*turn*

"I can't see you now."

"Don't worry, sugar buns. You'll be able to feel me, I promise."

*clink snap rustle lower*

"Hey! You're not..."

"I'm not?" *fondle squeeze*

"Um... maybe... No! Definitely not! I'm not ready for this."

"Of course you're not, honey. I have to get you prepared."

"I didn't mean... Christ, that's cold!"

"I'm sorry, I should have warmed it a little, I know."

"What on earth...? That's... Uh... That's.... slippery."

"That's why it's called 'lubricant'." *smack* "Don't squirm so much. Save it for when the fun really starts."

"No! Look, you stop that right now."

"I notice you haven't gotten loose from the restraints." *silence* "Is it warm enough now?"

"Yes." *rub rub rub* "Mmmm... I could get away, you know."

"I don't doubt it. Take a deep breath, dear. This will feel a little odd at first."

*gasp* *probe* "Nnnnngh."

"All right?"

*pant pant* "Yeah. You weren't kidding. Odd as hell. A lot different from my proctology exam."

"The abscence of florescent lights and rubber gloves does make a differnece. Besides, I don't think your doctor ever did this." *lick*

"No, definitely not." *pump pump* "He didn't do that either."

"Is that a complaint?"

"Just a statement."

"Ready for the next course level?"

"There's more?"

"Dear heart, you're still a freshman, trust me. Deep breath again."

*gasp* *push* "Oh, geez."

"Oh, that didn't get nearly the yelp the first one did!" *pump* *moan* *nip* "You know, the back of your neck is absolutely delicious."

"No one's ever told me that before. I've never... you know?"

"With a man?"

"With anyone or anything."

"Darling, I know you're young, but really... Such a waste. What have you been doing?"

"Messing up a lot of sheets and working out a hell of a lot in the gym. Cold showers have figured into my daily routine on a regular basis, also."

"Oh, you poor neglected thing. Well, now this is a mercy mission."

"Hey!"

"Not for you, my touchy little muffin. For the rest of the world. You have to be convinced to share this beautiful body. I'd be failing in my duties as a lecher if I didn't. So, to that end, it's time to show you the real magic."

"LIke what? It's already pretty magical."

"Aww, you say the sweetest things! You hold on just a second. I'm going to push pretty strongly now, and just crook my fingers UP a little, and it should be... right... about..."

*Yowl!*

"There!" *gasp gasp* "That feels good doesn't

it?" "Feels good? It's like saying Bruce is fairly well-to-do. It's a fucking understatement!"

"Oh, and he talks dirty, too! Joy!" *crook stroke*

*moooooooooan* "You're trying to kill me, right?" *crook stroke* *whine* "I'd offer to put you in my will, but I spent most of what I had buying you."

"Then you'd better get your money's worth, hadn't you?" *crinkle* "Oh, damn. I think I got a medium instead of a large." *whimper* "Hush, precious." *smooth* "No, it's going to work."

*grip*

"Should I take a deep breath?"

"You can, but you'll have to hold it for awhile. I'm going to take this slow." *spread push*

*whiiiiiiiiiine*

"Yes, I know. All right?"

*pant*

"Uh huh."

"Good boy." *push slide*

"Nnnnnnnnnghuh. Oh, damn. Is there much more?"

"A little."

"Okay."

*push*

"There." *pant* "Oh, my, Mister Greyson..."

"I think I'm gonna burst."

"Be quiet, dear, or I will, with those vibrations, and I don't want to just yet. I'm having far too much fun."

*nip nip nip nip nip*

"Mmmmm, Clive, I'm gonna have to explain any marks you make to Bruce."

"He's a big boy, he'll figure it out. Um, exactly how big a boy is he?"

"I wouldn't know."

"You mean you live with that and you haven't...?" *eyes roll* *sigh* "Young people. We must talk some day about missed opportunities."

"Like the one you're missing right now to screw me through this wall?" *backward push*

"Oh, I love a quick study!" *thrust*

"Yip!"

*knock knock* "Is someone stuck in there?"

*hissed* "Clive! Don't you dare laugh at that!"

"Me?" *smack*

"Ow! Do that again." *smack* *grunt* "Harder!"

"Oooo, I love a bossy bottom! You asked for it, precious."

*knockknockknock* "Hey, do you need help?"

"Oh, no, I'm doing quite well, thank you!" *thrust*

*whimper* "Cliiiiive."

thrustthrustthrust* *breathless* "What?"

"Couldya...? I need..."

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear! Of course." *grope*

*strokethruststrokethruststrokethruststrokethrust* "Clive, I think... I think..."

"Let go, sweetie. I am."

*griiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiind*

"Oh, God!"

*ggggrrrrrrrroooooooowwwwwwwllllllpuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrr*

*nuzzle cuddle*

"Are you all right, precious?"

*moan*

"Yes, me, too."

"My arms are getting tired."

"Here." *untie*

*groan* "Poor baby. Let me rub your shoulders for you." *rub rub*

*hug* "Oh! Well! Yes..." *cuddle nuzzle*

"Clive?"

"Yes?"

"Do they have good law courses at Metropolitan University? Bruce has been talking Harvard, but I was thinking..."

"As a matter of fact, they have an excellent pre-law set up, private dorm rooms, or lots of nice little apartments near campus. If you can talk him into letting you spend a weekend here for a tour, I'll do your hair for you, and there's a little place called Lavender's Green that's a lot of fun, especially when Scribe gets her panties in a twist, which she does regularly..."

Chapter Forty-one: Macho Pissing Contests and Party Crashers

There were a few more sales after Clive got knocked down to Dick. Scribe kept an ear cocked toward the cloak room. When Clark noticed what she was doing, he did, too. Of course, his hearing was a lot better than Scribe's, and she figured things must be going well with the disappeared duo, judging from how red Clark's face got. She had a feeling that the matron who'd purchased him was going to get her money's worth.

Just before it was Scribe's turn to be auctioned off, Dick and Clive exited from the cloakroom. Clive was refastening his cumerbund. Dick looked extremely mussed. In fact, if she wasn't mistaken, there was a teeny tag of boxer shorts peeking out of his fly zipper.

They wandered back up toward the stage, to the front of the crowd. Bruce was eyeing his ward curiously. "I haven't seen you look like that since you ate that entire box of liquer chocolates in one sitting. Sated." Dick smiled, and Clive rested his chin on the boy's shoulder. "Dick, we really need to have a talk when we get home."

Dick's smile broadened. "Whatever you say, precious."

Scribe sidled to the edge of the stage and hissed at Clive, "You lecher. Are you going to debauch the entire population?"

"Only the cute ones, pet."

"And now we come to what I am sure will be the high point of the evening..."

Scribe sighed as she went to stand beside the MC. "Oh, brother. No pressure here."

"I'm sure she needs no introduction..."

"But you're going to do it anyway." Scribe grabbed the mike. "Don't think so!" He tried to get the microphone back, but she held it away. "Hey, I don't give up the mike easily. Ask anyone at a kareoke bar." He kept trying, more or less plastering himself against her front. She said sweetly, "Step back, or lose the ability to father children." He stepped back.

"Okay, people. Time for me to make a complete instead of partial fool of myself, and time for you to dig deep into your bountiful pockets and actually do something that'll make you feel good without risking arrest. Open up the pocketbooks, wave away the moths, and prepare to shell out."

"The merchandise? Me." She turned slowly. "Forty-two years old, factory new. Not a lot of fancy bells and whistles, but all the standard equipment, and in good working order. I don't do windows, or scrub toilets. And as for if you're thinking about anything slightly, or extremely, off-color..." she cupped a hand beside her mouth, as if telling a secret. "It's called S-E-X. Don't tell the children. Well... Probably not. But who can say? Life is full of surprises. I know I sure as hell didn't think I'd end up in this situation when I got on the bus for the Fangoria convention. All right, sales pitch ended."

She tossed the microphone back to the MC. "Crank it up, Mr. Auctioneer. I'm kind of curious myself as to what someone thinks a few hours with me is worth."

"Can I have an opening..."

"One thousand." Scribe smiled and twiddled her fingers at Bruce, who twiddled back.

"I have one thousand. Do I hear..."

"Five thousand." There was a gasp from the crowd. That was the biggest, quickest raise of the night, and it took it automatically into the highest price bracket. Everone stared. Lex Luthor calmly sipped champagne.

The auctioneer recovered. "Brisk bidding on this lot, folks. I have five thousand. Do I hear..."

"Six thousand." Bruce glared at Lex.

"I have six thou..."

"Eight." Lex returned the look levelly. "Piker."

Scribe grabbed the MC's arm, leaning into the microphone. "Hey, did everyone else go home? Come on, people, talk it up. Yeah, the level is nice and high, but only two? You're hurting my feelings."

Someone from the back of the room yelled, "It ain't personal, Scribe, but do you think we're stupid enough to get between those two and what they want? Give us more credit."

She shot back, "Why should I? It's not like you've earned it."

The MC jerked his arm back. "I have..."

"Ten."

Scribe poked the MC. "You're getting to say less and less. Why don't you just nod from here on in?"

"Eleven-five." Lex snapped a nail against the rim of his glass, making it ring, and smiled up at Scribe.

She started muttering to herself. "It's just dinner and a date, it's just dinner and a date, it's just dinner and a date..."

Bruce glanced at her. "Don't worry, Scribe."

"Auctioneer, if there isn't another bid, shouldn't you begin the closing?"

"Don't be so sure of yourself, Luthor. Fourteen."

There were gasps from the crowd. Scribe held her head briefly. "Look, guys, this is getting ridiculous. I'm getting embarrassed here."

"Well, if this fool would just admit defeat and let us finish this, we could get on with it," Luthor murmured.

Scribe groaned. "The testosterone in this room is so thick you could swim in it. I almost feel the need to wear something pink and frilly to balance it out, and pink and frilly makes me gag. Will you two please stop this pissing contest?"

Bruce growled, "Auctioneer? Shouldn't you be doing the going, going, gone bit?"

"Fifteen."

Scribe was truly looking distressed now. "Oh, cripes. And that's in nineteen-sixtysomething dollars!"

"Seventeen." Bruce took a step toward Luthor.

"Twenty." Luthor took a step toward Bruce.

Scribe looked frantically at Clive, who was watching the show with fascination, leaning on Dick. "Clive? Should I feel like a bone between two dogs right now?"

"More like a filet between a couple of Bengals, pet." Clive said, watching the two men narrowly. "Tell you what, I'll have whichever one loses."

"Hey!" Dick poked him. "You're with me tonight, remember?"

"We haven't discussed the fun of chemistry and experimentation yet, have we, ducks?"

"Twenty-two. Back down, Luthor."

"Twenty-three five. Not a chance, Wayne."

Scribe wrung her hands. "I can't believe I'm saying this, I had such a laughing fit the first time I heard it, but can't we all just get along?"

They both looked at Scribe and said, in stereo, no less, "Hush."

Her brows went up, hands went to hips. "Hey!"

"Precious, be quiet and let the two pretty men fight over you," Clive advised.

"Shut up, Clive. You just want salvage rights."

"True."

The MC tried, futilely, to regain control. As if he'd ever had control. "I have a bid of (under his breath) Good God (normal voice) twenty-three thousand five hundred dollars." He looked at Luthor. "Um... you are aware that you aren't actually buying her? She doesn't come with a bill of sale."

"I can have my law department look into that later. Just drop the damn gavel, or whatever the hell you do to declare me the winner."

"Twenty five!"

"You can't do it, Wayne. Oh, you may beat me by a little in the total holdings department, but I'm willing to do layoffs and factory closings to get enough liquid cash to keep bidding till you drop out." He sneered. "I know you're too noble to crush the livelihoods of any of your little employees." He glared up at the stage. "Thirty."

Bruce was opening his mouth to respond, Scribe was wondering if there was any way she could have this taped, so she could take a copy home and have it to play any time someone read one of her fan fictions and declared her to be 'cheap'. Suddenly the doors to the lobby burst open and a group of men dressed all in black, right down to the tennis shoes, up to the hoods over their heads, and out to the guns they clutched, rushed in.

There were screams as a volley of gunfire raked the ceiling, tinkling the chandelier. "All right!" bawled the thug in the lead. "This is a hold up."

On the stage, Scribe rolled her eyes and sighed. "No shit, Sherlock." Scribe looked down at Lois. "Lo, do you remember that day that I came home from shopping? What did I say about charity events?"

She turned pale, staring at the gunmen, who were beginning to herd the crowd back toward the stage. "You said, that every other gala charity event you'd ever seen in comics, television or comic inspired movies got crashed by some sort of super villain."

Lex Luthor, raising his hands with a world-weary look on his face said, "My dear, I know super villains. Those are not super villains."

Chapter Forty-two: Out of the Frying Pan

Scribe's POV

Ya know, I actually have a soft spot for cliches. No, really, I like them. I've been known to speak in nothing but cliches for over an hour. *pause* All right, that was when I was drunk, but I knew enough to go on for an hour, so you can see that I'm up on them.

I like cliches in movies, television, and literature, too, as long as they're knowing cliches. You know *wink wink, nudge nudge* Say no more. But those dippity-doo-dahs with the guns were living a cliche that I'd have rather passed up.

Deep inside I'd know it was going to happen. It was tempting fate, all those rich, famous and semi-famous people together in one place, glitz out the wazoo, and all in the name of a good cause. We were a terrorist attack waiting to happen. The only thing that could have made the invasion more certain would have been if they'd had an orphans' choir supervised by a couple of crippled nuns entertaining us.

The problem was, this was cliche mixed with, you should pardon the expression, real life. Those bullets had been real, people. I could hear glass from the shot up chandelier danglies crunching under people's feet as they moved toward the stage.

I took the opportunity to sidle to the edge of the stage, to where Clark was standing, watching the proceedings narrowly. I went to him instead of Bruce or Dick, because, even though I could see they were coiled for action, watching the bandits narrowly, I didn't think they'd brought along the rubberized suits, and they'd have to be kind of discrete in whatever they did to avoid blowing their secret identities. Clark, on the other hand, had that 'so fast you can't see him' bit going. "Gee, Clark, do you suppose Superman will figure out what's going on and kick the crap out of the bad guys?"

"He would, if he were here, and if he were pretty sure that he could get into his uniform without anyone noticing. But the goons are keeping a pretty close eye on the men in the crowd."

"Let me have your glasses."

"What? I need..."

"No, you don't. Don't argue with me, just give them to me." *ominous pause* "I have a plan."

"That bothers me, but I really don't have any choice right now."

"Look, you need a diversion?" He nodded. " Say no more."

Oh, I can give you diversion.

I went off the side of the stage, over to one of the long tables that had been set up for our supper later in the evening. I stayed at the end farthest into the room, knowing that if I wandered too far down, toward the door that led to the kitchen, I might find out how real those bullets were.

I climbed up on the table top. Nice sturdy furniture they had there, none of those chintzy folding tables, I'm glad to say. I really didn't want to fall on my butt, doing what I intended to do.

No one was really paying much attention to me right then. I guess the baddies figured I either wanted a good view, or was operating on the principle of a woman who's spotted a mouse.

I took a deep breath and muttered, "My mother will never know. My mother will never know. I hope to God, because I'd never hear the end of it."

Using a trick one of my uncles had taught me, I put two fingers in my mouth and gave a sharp, ear-splitting whistle. "Yo! Villains!"

Beady eyes peering out of holes in hoods in every part of the room all focused on me. I smiled brightly. "As they like to say in the newspaper business..." I jerked my top down. "Flash!"

Don't have a heart attack. I was still wearing my strapless bra.

Still, I think I heard jaws hitting the floor. It got real quiet. I saw Clark sneaking toward a little supply closet. The crowd was starting to murmur. Shit, more diversion needed.

I hopped down, landing right next to Lois, who was gaping as much as anyone else. I grabbed her around the waist. "Quick impression. Madonna." I bent her backward and laid a deep soul kiss on her.

When I let her up, Clark was gone. Unfortunately, all the goons in black were beginning to make their way toward my section of the room, and...

How do I put this delicately?

They were wearing very tight trousers, and I was given cause for alarm about the retention of my maiden state.

Time for the escape plan. I turned my back, pulled my top back up, slapped on the glasses, and turned around again. They stopped advancing, and started to look around, bewildered. I heard one of them call, "Where the hell did the babe go?"

One of his compatriots answered. "I dunno. She was right over there next to the reporter and the one in glasses."

Lois whispered, "My God, Scribe! You're super power is working again!"

"Yeah Lois. Right. You know, I really think we should bug out of here."

"Are you kidding? This is the story opportunity of a lifetime. But you had better go."

Considering what I'd just overheard one of the bandits saying they intended to do with me once they caught me, I thought that might be a good idea. I slowly sank to my hands and knees, and edged under the table.

There was a long table cloth hanging over the front, and I crawled the length of the table without being apprehended. I was hoping to get out of the room and call 911, or police headquarter, or send up a flare, or just run around screaming myself silly for help. Whatever seemed most appropriate at the time.

I managed to sneak the last few feet to the door without being noticed, and slipped into the kitchen. It was empty. The kitchen staff, being badly paid but no fools, had scarppered a long time ago. The only person there was a burly guy in a suit wearing a SECURITY tag. "Whoa, are you ever needed! Dude, we have, like, a raid or something going on in there!"

"Yes, Miss Scribe. We're aware of it. Reinforcements are on their way now. We need to get you safely out of the way, in case there's any violence."

"I have friends back in there."

"We'll take care of them. Please, I know you mean well, but you'll just be in the way."

Ah. Well, not like that's never been said before.

"We have a car outside. You can wait there." Another SECURITY guy had come in from outside. Number One and Number Two flanked me, urging me toward the door. What the hell? Maybe I could marshal troops or something outside. I'd already proved I could attract attention.

In the alley just outside the back door of the hotel kitchen, a huge, dark car was waiting. I think what first gave me pause was the fact that the engine was idling. I dug my sensible height heels into the pavement and said, "Waitaminit. I'm not going anywhere till this broo-ha-ha is settled."

"You don't have to," SECURITY One assured me. "We just want to be prepared in case the situation escalates." SECURITY Two opened the back door, and SECURITY One put a hand on the small of my back to direct me. "Please be reasonable, Miss Scribe."

"A, I have seldom been accused of being reasonable. B, how the hell did you recognize me?" That was what was wrong. The guy had known who I was instantly, a perfectly normal reaction for anyone from my home universe, but very unusual here, since I was wearing the ultimate disguise: glasses.

One and two exchanged glances, and chorused. "Uh..."

"Thought so." I started to turn around and head back into the kitchen. All kinds of nice, pointy self-defense approved things in a kitchen.

I heard a sigh. A familiar voice from the interior of the car said, "Oh, for God's sake. Just heave her in."

I was heaved. I didn't want to be, mind you, but there were two of them roughly the size of SUVs, but faster. I was sort of scooped up and flung into the backseat. I landed across someone, and heard the door slam behind me. I was up and around in a flash, tugging at the door handle. No go, of course, but that didn't stop me. I heard the front seat door slam, and the car was put into gear. My hand skimmed over the door, but I couldn't locate a lock. "What the hell? Isn't this against safety regulations, or something? Ralph Nader is gonna be so pissed!"

"The legal department will handle Mr. Nader, whoever he is."

I stiffened, my back to my fellow passenger. Finally I turned around and looked at the man sitting on the other side of the car. "Tell me why I'm not surprised."

Lex Luthor smiled charmingly. "Because you are a remarkably intelligent woman."

"Look, last I heard, Bruce had the highest bid. Better take me back, or there will be SUCH a scandal in the society columns." I will not panic. I will talk very, very fast, but I will not panic.

"My dear girl, I've been caught trying to instigate the downfall of democracy in America, cause mass destruction over petty irritants, and foster what amounts to genocide. I believe I can survive fixing a celebrity auction. In any case..." He waved a hand negligently. "It was just a matter of time. I would have outbid him eventually."

"Says you. Old Bruce can be pretty damn stubborn himself, and he doesn't like to lose, either."

"Do you admire that in a man?"

Shit. He sounds far too interested. "Missed the demonstration I did just before running into the kitchen, didn't you? I don't admire anything in a man. I'm gay." There we go. The old 'Bug off, I'm a lesbian' ploy. Uh oh, he's shaking his head.

"I very much doubt that. Bi-sexual, possibly. And I did see you're charming embrace with Miss Lane." His eyes glinted. "Highly stimulating."

Oh, crap. I forgot that girl-girl stuff turns on a lot of guys. "I'm a heckuvan actress. You dounderstand acting, right?"

"Of course. I'm a sociopath, not a psychopath. The difference is that the sociopath can act normal for extended periods of time, thus enabling him to function in society at large. I'm so glad you act. Role playing is so much fun. Why don't we play 'evil genius and helpless captive'?"

"I'd rather play 'Harry Houdini'." I jerked frantically at the door.

"Oh, you're interested in handcuffs, are you?"

I groaned. I don't think I can say anything that this man won't find suggestive. "Let me off here, and we'll forget about the kidnaping charges."

"I don't think so. In any case, what's one more felony, more or less? Particularly when you consider what I intend to do."

"I'm stating here and now for the record that I do not agree to anything that you have in mind."

"You're statement has been duly noted and will be duly ignored." He held out his hand. "Why don't you come over here?"

"N-o-o. I think I'd rather do something safer, like say... cuddling a black mamba."

"Ah, the deadliest snake on earth! You know me so well, you flatterer."

*groan* I started kicking the door, wishing for my engineer boots. Oh, heck, I'm realistic enough to know that I couldn't have kicked the window out, but they would have made me feel more comfortable around Luthor.

"Well, this won't due. You're scuffing the paneling, and it's such a bother to have the car detailed. We'll have to get you calmed down a bit." He touched a button, and a panel slid down in the barrier that cut us off from the front seat. *Yes, there was a barrier. You think I would have hesitated to haul my butt over that front seat and jump out the passenger door? I'm not that worried about flashing my panties.* There was what looked like a little bar set up: bottles of various fluids, glasses, even a little ice bucket.

He took a decanter and poured something alcoholic over a couple of ice cubes. "You don't honestly think I'd be stupid enough to drink anything you gave me now?"

"Perish the thought. No, this is for me. A little celebratory libation."

"Choke on it."

"Cheers to you, too." He drained it, then pulled a pristine white hankie from his jacket pocket. It was monogrammed *naturally*. I'll give him this, the linked double Ls were pretty classy looking. Folding it into a tight pad, he took another bottle from the cabinet, opened it, and pressed the pad to its mouth. Tipping it up, he waited for the liquid to soak the pad. He was humming Brahm's Lullaby.

"You're not." He recapped the bottle. "No, I mean, that is so Pearl Pureheart."

"Sometimes the old fashioned methods are the best." He wrung the pad out over the ice bucket. "Now then." He turned toward me, pad in hand, and inquired politely. "How shall we do this?" I screamed and jerked on the handle again as hard as I could. "Fine. The hard way it is."

He lunged at me. Damn, you wouldn't think someone that big could move that fast.

I don't know... Maybe in an open space I would have had a chance, but I'm probably fooling myself. In any case, I got thrown back into the corner, and ended up with him on top of me and the rag over my mouth and nose.

Luckily I'd been drawing in a breath to scream just as he landed on me, so I had a gulp of oxygen, but it didn't last long. Especially since I was using it up trying to hurt him. Not much success there. It was like trying to pound on a brick wall, and he managed to keep my nails from landing. Pretty soon I was having lights flash in front of my eyes, and feeling like my lungs were about to burst. It was either breathe, or pass out anyway, so I breathed. God, chloroform smells nasty. I lived around chemical plants and refineries most of my life, and I can recognize smelly.

The first whiff made me lightheaded. The second, and the fog started to roll in. The third, and I was having a hard time remembering why I was so upset.

The guy on top of me was talking. "That's the ticket. Just a few more breaths, Scribe. You'll be much more relaxed. There's been far too much excitement in your life these days, so I'm just going to remove you to a place where you can take a little time to relax. Well..." A shark smile. "In a way. Now, I don't want you to worry. I'm not going to do anything while you're unconscious. It would hardly be sporting, and I know it wouldn't be as much fun. I mean, if I wanted that kind of action, all I'd have to do would be warm up a corpse, wouldn't I?"

He'd pulled the pad away, and I mumbled, "Necrophilia. Squick."

"Yes, I've found it rather disgusting. You just get some rest. I won't do anything. Except... Well..."

I felt his hand creep up under my skirt as I started to pass out. "You really won't be needing these panties, will you?"

Chapter Forty-three: Discovery of Devious Deeds, and When Not to Annoy the Police

Batman

Damn it. And Bruce always prides himself on being properly dressed for any occasion. There wasn't much we could do, surrounded by the crowd, and with the bandits armed. We couldn't risk any stray shots.

I admit I was... I suppose 'astonished' is an appropriate term when, Scribe did what she did. I managed to keep my jaw from hitting the dance floor, but only by a few inches, I'm afraid. That Clive person that Dick... um... purchased, whistled and clapped. While I agreed with him in spirit, it just didn't seem like the appropriate time. He grinned at me and said, "Isn't she marvelous? If I'd worn any underwear, I'd throw it at her."

It soon became clear what a clever little girl she is. It turned out to be a diversionary tactic to let Kal-el get somewhere private to get into his work clothes. Once he came out of that supply closet in a blur of blue and red, there was so much confusion that Robin and I were able to crack a few heads together without raising too much suspicion.

Thank goodness for superspeed. Kal had the guns out of their hands and bent into useless pretzles before they knew what was happening. Then it was a REAL free-for-all. Everyone got in on the fun. You know, people think that the upper-crust is pretty wishy-washy, but when they get pissed...

Remember, most of these people have to have a little shark, wolf, or hyena in them to function in the business world the way they do. The animal came out. I even saw one sweet little old lady with hair like white cotton-candy dump crack a crook on the skull with a champagne bottle like he was a new yacht, and she was christening him.

Lois Lane had taken off one spike-heeled pump and was giving 'em hell with it. Jimmy exercised regualarly at the Metropolis Gym, sparring with the Golden Glove candidates, and was giving a very good accounting of himself. And Clive...

I thought hairdresseres were supposed to be prissy things. He was wearing well polished, but hard-toed boots with his evening dress, and I saw more than one crook get lofted off the floor and land flat, clutching his fly and whimpering pathetically. I was very glad that Clive was on my side, as I hadn't worn the Batcup.

The police arrived about the time the bandits realized they had completely lost control of the situation, and made a break for it. They were easily rounded up. The crowd started to have a calming drink and excitedly discuss what had just happened. It looked as if the ball was going to go on as planned.

I was ready to finish off the auction and get it over with, hoping I could persuade Scribe to ditch the rest of the party in favor of a quieter, more intimate affair (yes, the choice of words IS deliberate) back at my hotel suite.

Anyway, I was curious as to what she had done during the broo-ha-ha. She didn't strike me as the type to stand on the side-lines, daintily wringing her hands.

Lois, Jimmy, Dick, Clive, and Clark (who had appeared just after Superman left, surprise, surprise) were chattering together, so I went to them. "Where's Scribe?" They all paused, looking around.

"She was headed toward the kitchens, last time I saw her," said Lois. "I think she was going to call the cops."

I went to the kitchen, and they trailed after me. It was empty. We checked cabinets, and the walk in refrigerator. Nothing.

"She couldn't have been in here long." Jimmy pointed to a plate of donuts. "Those would have been decimated." When Lois looked at him, he shrugged. "Hey, she admits it. She's proud of it."

Clive was looking around. "You can't get back into the hotel any way but through the room we were in. The only other door is that exit, which has to lead into the alley." He frowned. "I don't like this. If she went out the back for help, she'd have returned by now."

"Maybe she went home?" Dick suggested.

Clive shook a finger at him. "Not my lamb! She wouldn't run off and leave her friends like that."

"I have to agree," Lois added. "I think she would have called someone, t hen come back in and started cracking heads."

"So what happened?"

"Hey!" Jimmy bent and picked something up off the floor by the exit. "It's a sequin!"

We went into the alley. We searched quickly, but thoroughly. There was no place she could have hidden out there. Then Lois cried, "Oh no!" and swooped up something from the ground.

"What is it?" We gathered around her.

She turned it over in her hands in distress. "It's her chaplet! She was here, and something happened to her!"

Clive nodded. "Scribe would never run off and leave an accessory if she had any choice in the matter. She's been 'napped!"

"I thought they got all the crooks," Lois wailed. "Was there a second group coming in through the back, and they decided to snatch her?"

"Has anyone seen Lex Luthor since the robbery began?" We all turned to look at Clark. He was very pale, and very grim.

Looks were exchanged, heads nodded. I said, "Okay, I happen to think that if anything has happened, he's responsible, but I'm prejudiced, so I'll play devil's advocate here for a minute. No one saw him with her after the robbery began?" They shook their heads. "Did he seem at all involved with any of the bandits?"

"Aside from having complete contempt for them, no." said Lois.

"Has he threatend or harassed her in any way in the past?"

Jimmy cleared his throat, and said grudgingly. "Well, I don't know it you could technically classify it as that. He never actually made any verbal or physical advances or threats that I'm aware of. But the man's attitude..."

I sighed. "Son, if people could be jailed for bad attitudes, almost everyone would do time at some point, and our prisons would burst at the seams. Is there any solid evidence to suggest that he might have abducted her besides the fact that they're both gone."

Jimmy scowled. "He... he was lusting after her."

Clive patted him on the shoulder. "Dear boy, I lust after her, you lust after her, I'm reasonably certain friend Kent and Miss Lane lust after her, and I believe, judging from the way he was bidding, that the feeling isn't entirely new to Mr. Wayne. Anyone who's had access to a magazine since she arrived could reasonably be accused of the same. It won't hold up."

"There isn't any concrete proof, proof that would hold up in court, or convince a judge to give us a search warrant," I said.

"So, that's why we aren't going to do anything?" Jimmy huffed.

"No." I said calmly. "That's why we aren't going to rely on the police to do anything."

Chapter Forty-four: Not Exactly Tied to the Railroad Tracks, But Close Enough For Government Work

Scribe's POV

*groan*

Ohhh, fuck. What a hangover. How much did I drink last night? I thought I'd decided to stick with champagne. I didn't think I could hold enough bubble water to get me drunk enough to justify this. I'd think a hwadache like this would at least take tequila.

*shift*

*moan*

That did not help. *smack smack* Well, I don't have the usual morning mouth that I get after a good drunk. I don't taste booze or upchuck. That's a good sign. I must've managed to keep everything down. Of course, I probably wouldn't have this piledriver in my skull if I'd thrown up some of what I drank.

*runs tongue over teeth* I must've brushed my teeth before I passed out. I'm getting more intelligent in my old age. I can't remember...

That isn't good. I've never gotten to the black-out stage before. Well, unless you count that one time I woke up wearing my clothes inside-out. That was better than Lawrence, though. We never did figure out how he got ahold of that State Trooper uniform, but I noticed that he didn't get any speeding tickets on the highway after that.

I'd better check for embarrassing entanglements. I slide my right arm carefully out to the side. Okay, that's the edge of the bed. I slide my left arm out, and it keeps on slinding. Wait a minute. I sleep in a single bed. The booger is narrow. What's going on here? Uh-oh. Unless I'm not in my own bed. Eesh. This could be awkward. I slide my leg out to the side, scooting when necessar. I eventually encounter the other side of the bed.

Whew. No one there. So, unless they're in the potty, or real considerate, and are making me breakfast, I'm alone. Maybe I just spent the night in someone's guest bedroom? I hope so. I'd hate to think I got deflowered and didn't know it. That really would be losing my virginity. Stupid term, though. Sounds like you misplaced it. 'Did you look under the sofa cushions? Maybe it's there'.

I do a quick physical tally of aches and pains. Just my head, so I'm going to assume that I'm still factory direct. I'm pretty sure that I'd feel something if I'd done the deed anytime recently.

Okay, I was somewhere other than my own bed. On the plus side, I wasn't naked. I was...

Wait a minute. I moved my legs again. Something doesn't feel right. I reached up under my skirt, running my hand up my leg..

. ...past my hip, to my side with no fucking panties anywhere in between!

Shit! This can-not be a good sign! I think that my reaching a state where I'd remove my panties and forget them somewhere would approach 'she's-got-alcohol-poisoning-pump-her-stomach' territory.

Okay, Scribe. Think calmly. You did not remove your panties. That means that someone else did.

Holy crap, I've been pantsed. Thank God they were clean. Mom said to wear nice underwear in case I got in an accident, but she never mentioned possible lingerie snatchers.

By now I'm afraid to open my eyes. Okay, think, think. Bruce won me at the auction, right? The last bid I remember was about twenty-five large, that pretty much had to be it. I mean, it was, like, about twice what I make a year. Quadruple, if you consider it in 1960s cash. Damn, how impressed was I? I wouldn't think he'd be the kind to take advantage of a drunk woman. But then again, when I'm drunk, I might be the kind to take advantage of him. Can't say for sure. Never got sloshed around someone that yummy without chaperones. I suppose the main question would be, 'Did we have a good time?'

I'm trying to avoid certain disturbing thoughts here, and I know it. Bruce wouldn't do something like that. Well, maybe Bruce would, but I'm pretty sure the Batman persona would whoa him up on it.

And I suddenly recall that the auction didn't come to a natural conclusion. The simps in ski masks. Yeah, now I remember. Something that cliched, how could I forget? Man, that knit must've been hellish in this heat. I hope they all get rashes. Let's see... They broke in. They started looting the place. Supey couldn't change because of the audience, so...

I don't need a blanket, I'm providing my own heat with the blush. Eey-ah. I provided diversionary tactics. I'm glad now I invested in the fancy booby hammock. Which... A quick feel, and a wash of relief. I am still wearing. Okay, distraction provided, Clark Kent, exit to broom closet. What next?

Think, think, think. Yeah, Scribe exit to kitchen. Waitaminute. There were donuts in there, but I didn't snag one. Why not, if I knew Superman was about to do his bit? I mean, things were pretty well settled after he got out of sight long enough to change. I must not have stayed in the kitchen, but where...

There was only one other place to go. The alley. And in the alley was a big ol' car. And in the car was a back seat. And in the back seat was...

I groaned. "Oh, nooooo. Lex Luthor."

"Yes?"

My eyes pop open. I may have flashed my bosum earlier, but I'm feeling rather protective of it right now, and I clutch the sheet up high. He's sitting comfortably in a chair beside the bed, watching me. The bastard is smiling. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Watching you sleep. You look so innocent. Even the tiny bit of drool was rather charming."

I wipe my mouth quickly, looking around. I don't know this place. It's an ordinary enough looking room, but it's unfamiliar. "This isn't my room."

He crosses his legs, folding his hands on his knee. "Yes, it is."

"No, it isn't. I know my room, and this isn't it."

"Let me rephrase that: It's your room now."

I take a moment to let that sink in. I say, as calmly as I can manage, "No--fucking--way."

"Interesting qualifier you used there, my dear. Very perceptive."

I cross my legs under the covers. "You didn't. I can tell."

"Not yet."

I don't think two words could ever be any more chilling. Well, except maybe 'tax audit', and that's in a whole 'nother realm of experience. The screwing it refers to is only metaphoric. I reacted in a mature and intelligent manner. I flipped the covers up over my head.

I heard Lex chuckle. "Oh, come now. That only works with the boogey man. Despite rumors to the contrary, I am not the boogey man. He's a pussy."

"If you touch me, I'll scream so loud that people will call 911 back in my home universe."

"Since they're in your universe, they won't do you much good here, will they? And we don't have this 911 thing over here. If we did, I hardly think the noise will get past the sound-proofing. I've gone through quite a bit of trouble and expense for you, young lady."

"If you're expecting awe and gratitude... Aw. Forget the gratitude." I lowered the sheet, realizing that if I got pounced on, it might be better not to be any more restricted than I had to be. "I seem to be missing a certain article of clothing. You wouldn't happen to know what happened to them, would you?"

He pulled a wad of white cloth out of his pocket, and shook it open. "I assume you mean these?" They were my panties, all right. As I watched, he waved them under his nose, sniffing for all the world like he was savoring the bouquet of a fine brandy or wine.

"That... is disturbing. Can I have them back?"

"Mm. You might want to have them laundered first."

"I only put them on before I went to the auction. I didn't get them that dirty."

"No, you didn't. I, on the other hand..."

I winced. "Say it isn't so."

"They're very soft for cotton."

The sheet went over the head again. "Squick squick squick squick squick! That is entirely more than I needed to know in this lifetime. You can keep them."

"Thank you. I'm considering having them framed. Eventually. Dear, am I going to have to remove that sheet? I don't want to deprive you of any of the little comforts if I don't have to."

I lowered the sheet again and pointed to a door in the corner. "Is that door locked?"

"No." I started edging toward the side of the bed, trying to gauge if I had a chance of reaching it before he grabbed me. "That's the bathroom. It would be cruel to lock you out of it, and pointless from a security standpoint." He waved his hand toward a door on the other side of the room. "However, that door is locked, and shall remain so unless I am in the process of entering or leaving."

I sighed heavily. "Please tell me that you've kidnapped me for ransom." He shook his head. "You plan to use me as a hostage because of my fame to negotiate something?" He shook his head again. I knew what was going on, but I desperately didn't want to. "I was on the list for a scavenger hunt?"

He smiled. "I love your sense of humor. I hope you'll be able to retain it, but I rather doubt you will."

"I should warn you before you try anything. I know that you people don't have much to worry about over here in the way of social diseases. Well, they have a little something called AIDS where I came from, and you really don't want to mess with that. I'm patient Zero for this world."

He smiled again. "Nice try. According to that physical you had, you're in robust health."

"Physical?"

"For that nice little freebie insurance policy."

"You mean you...?" I scowled. "I told Lois there was no such thing as a free lunch."

"And it would be quite hard for you to have contracted a sexually transmitted disease without actually having had sex."

I think I turned a lovely shade of creme de menthe. A few people knew about my maiden state: Superman, Lois, Jimmy, and Clive. But I hadn't exactly done press releases on it. Knowing that he knew shook me big time. He could tell, and I could tell that it amused him, the son of a bitch. So I tried to put up a brave front. "That exam was a couple of weeks ago. A lot can happen in a couple of weeks." Maybe if he thought I was used goods...

"It will be easy enough to determine."

Crap. Okay, time to reason with the unreasonable. "Look, I know from long experience in comic book reading that this sort of enterprise never suceeds. I've got a friend out there with X Ray vision who has been known to rip the top off buildings in order to get to something inside."

"Yes, however, he feels bound by the silly rules of law pertaining to 'legal search', and won't go ripping up any of my property unless he has just cause. And he won't be locating you so easily, because I took the precaution of having this room lead lined."

"Don't you think that a lead lined room in one of your buildings will make him suspcious?"

"Oh, I have no doubt. But then, I have dozens of buildings all over the city and surrounding area, and quite a few of them have similar lead lined rooms." He smiled. "No judge on earth would give him permission to break into all of them. I'd say the odds are on my side."

"I hate people who think ahead."

"No need for that, my dear. You'll have plenty of excellent reasons to hate me before long." He stood up, reaching for his belt. Sheet up. "Stop that, or I'll strip you the rest of the way."

"Does that statement mean that I have a chance to keep my clothes?"

"For the time being, if you co-operate."

"Define co-operate."

"Not much for right now. You may not believe this, Scribe, but I'm very good at postponing my own gratification. What with you being a virgin, there are just so MANY possibilities. I'm going to take my time. All I intend to do right now is... shall we say, relieve a little tension? If you sit there like a good girl and watch, I'll leave you alone for a while."

"You're kidding, right?"

"It's your choice. You can either practise a bit of voyeurism, or I can pop your cherry right now. Which will it be? If you won't watch, I need to go get condoms before I go any further."

"Jesus." Anything to keep him off me a little longer. I lowered the sheet, crossed my arms, and tucked my chin, trying to look beligerant instead of scared.

"Sensible girl." He came over to the side of the bed. I started to lean away, and he said, "Sit still. I'm not going to touch you yet, but I want you to stay right there. Keep your eyes open, and don't look away from me unless you want me to finish this as a duet instead of a solo. Do you understand?" He'd reached into his fly and eased out his cock, which was more than half-hard.

I nodded my understanding, not trusting my voice right then. Plus I wasn't too keen on the idea of opening my mouth with him standing there like that, if you know what I mean.

Okay, after a fair selection of videos and magazines at home, and a few romps with Clive and Superman, I knew what to expect. He was... how do I put this? His ego and his IQ weren't the only things big about him. I hadn't thought it was possible to get any more worried than I already was, but once again I proved myself wrong. The anxiety factor went way up.

And that seemed to please him, the snot. At least he didn't talk to me about it. He just went about his business, stroking and squeezing with increasing speed and strength. Then, right at the end, he whipped out my panties and they got another step closer to laundry hell.

My heart was thudding as he wadded them up and put them away again. He was staring at me as he zipped back up, and I felt the need to say something smart-ass. Don't ask me why. Death wish, I suppose. Anyway, I said, "Do all men make funny faces when they come?"

He just shrugged. "I couldn't say. I've never had the desire to look at another man's face during that particular happy event." He reached over and patted my cheek, and I cringed back. "I'm looking forward to seeing what you look like when you climax, though."

"You'll never know."

"We'll see." He went to the door. "There are some breakfast things in the mini refrigerator over by the dresser. I have to get to work. I'll try and get something to you for lunch." He left.

I waited for a minute, then crawled out of the bed and went over to inspect the door. I tried the handle gently. From the other side, I heard Lex Luthor's voice say, "You're just going to frustrate yourself even more, Scribe. Have breakfast and relax. It doesn't have to be a fate worse than death, you know."

I turned and leaned back against the door, sighing. "Oh, cripes."

Chapter Forty-five: A Brief Tribute to Douglas Adams, and the Troops Are Marshaled

"Okay." Lois put her hands on her hips. "As Douglas Adams would say, 'Don't panic!'"

She got blank looks from everyone. It was Dick who finally asked. "Who?"

Lois shrugged. "I don't know, either. It's just something Scribe said a couple of times. She said something about him being a genius, and one of the funniest men ever to walk the face of the Earth, and she pitied us 'cause we never got to read 'Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy'."

Jimmy looked thoughtful. "I don't know why, but for some reason, that title makes me want to laugh."

"Anyway, don't panic," Lois continued.

Bruce's voice was just the tiniest bit cool. "My dear Miss Lane, I never panic."

"All right. Quit being defensive. We're wasting time. What we need is a comprehensive list of every building owned by Luthor in and around Metropolis. I don't think he'd risk taking her somewhere he didn't have complete control."

Clark nodded. "And he's just arrogant enough to want to keep her nearby, right under our noses, rather than smuggling her out of the immediate area. I..." He cleared his throat. "I'm going to run down Superman and tell him what's happened. I expect he'll want to do a quick fly over and scan the area."

"It will be easier for him if he waits till we have the list, so he can concentrate his efforts," Lois remarked.

"And how long do you anticipate this taking Lois?"

"Uh..."

"You have no access to public records at this time of night, do you?"

"Well, no."

"I do." Everyone looked at Bruce. "No, I won't tell you how, but I do. I'll need to have a little time alone. Then I can have a list of the properties sent here, if the Daily Planet will let us use their wire service receiver, Lois."

"Of course they will. Even if the owners might balk at first, once I explain to them the amount of publicity this will generate, they'll split their pants trying to help out."

"And while I'm at it," Bruce examined his fingernails casually. "I'll appraise Batman of the situation. I'm sure he and Robin will want to help."

"Oh, you know them personally, do you?" Clive perked up.

"Why, yes. I do."

"Any chance I might get to meet them?"

Lois stamped her foot. "Clive! How can you think about that when Scribe is in danger?"

"Honey, Scribe would understand. And I fully intend to do some serious ass-kicking, given the opportunity. No one hauls my precious off like a sack of sugar and gets away with it." He started toward the door. "I'm going to go make a few calls and get the network looking. Given Luthor's... um... recreational proclivities, there's a good chance that someone I know might have a clue to some of his more secluded bolt-holes."

Clark followed him. "I'll go put the word out to Superman."

Jimmy sighed. "Well, it's probably hopeless, but I'll start checking to see if anyone saw anything suspicious."

Lois chimed in, "And I'll go down to the Daily Planet and tell the operators to get ready to receive whatever information you can scrounge up for us."

Bruce watched everyone leave, and murmured, "Oh, I can do a bit better than scrounge." He looked at Dick. "Looks like we don't get a vacation after all."

"It was nice while it lasted. I'll go get the suits out of the trunk." He slipped out the back door.

Bruce went to the phone hanging on the wall and punched in a number that only three people knew: he, Dick, and Alfred. it range twice, then was picked up. A mechanized voice said "Identify."

He said, "Dark Knight."

There was a muted whirr. In a moment the voice said, "Identity verified. Welcome, Dark Knight."

Batman began to tap the number pad rapidly, and the computer in the Batcave prepared to process his data request.

*

In the Daily Planet wire room, Lois paced nervously beside the machine that would receive whatever information Bruce could dig up. The operator, a seasoned veteran who had probably been working for newspapers back when they relies on the pony express for information on breaking stories, watched her calmly. He'd seen elections, wars, disasters, and the frenzy that accompanied Lindbergh's crossing of the Atlantic. A simple 'possible' kidnaping wasn't going to faze him. But finally he said, "Miz Lane, would you please light somewhere? You're giving me whiplash, trying' to follow you back an' forth."

"Sorry, but if I don't pace, I'll bite my nails, and I spent a bundle on a manicure for that charity function." She sighed gustily. "I probably could have gotten it done at Attitudes for a discount, and had a lot more fun to boot."

The old man nodded placidly. "That's what my wife says." Lois stared at him, and he shrugged. "She's got the prettiest silver hair you ever saw, and there's always a spring in her step after she visits Clive." He grinned. "I'm the one who gets the benefit of that spring."

"The man is everywhere," Lois murmured.

"Not quite, darling, but I spread myself around." Clive strode into the room and gave the old man a peck on the cheek. "Hello, Don. How's Mabel?"

"Ornery as ever. She'll want a touch-up in about two weeks."

"You tell her to come right on in and I'll be happy to touch her up, in any way she likes." He looked at the quiet machine, then at Lois. "Nothing yet?"

She shook her head. "I don't know how hopeful to be. I mean, I know he's rich and powerful, but it's damn hard to root any bureaucrat out of bed."

"Don't worry, sweety. I have a feeling that Mister Wayne has a real knack for getting what he wants, judging from the way he was going after Scribe." He frowned. "I hope we can find her quickly. I know what that nasty man, Luthor, has in mind. Well, I can imagine. I'd probably do the same thing, but only if she really wanted to, and I hate to think about my precious having her first time with a selfish brute like that."

"How can you be thinking of things like that at a time like this?"

"Come on now, Little Miss A-Line Skirt. We know damn good and well what old Lexie wants, and it's no use pretending we don't. We'd better face facts that there's a possibility this may turn out much worse than the Lavender's Green Great Amazon Assault, and be prepared to pick up the pieces."

"You're right."

"Of course I am. I am always right in matters concerning sex in its many varied and wonderful forms. No, it would be awful if poor Scribe had her first bouncy-bouncy with Luthor. Now Mr. Wayne, that's a different matter. He'd be good to my lamb, I'm sure. And..." he smiled wickedly. "there's always the chance that the other member of that delectable household might be persuaded to join in."

"My God, Clive!"

"Oh, hush! As it the idea of both of those beautiful men worshiping her with physical pleasure isn't stimulating." Lois fingered the short string of pearls she was wearing, as if they were getting tighter. He nodded significantly. "Hell, I know I'd pay to see it."

"Where are they, anyway?"

Clive shrugged. "On their way here, I would suppose. I went back to my shop to make my phone calls, and then came right here."

"You changed?" Lois looked at him closer.

"Only enough so that it wouldn't hinder me if things got, pardon the expression, hairy." Clive was still wearing his tuxedo pants, but he'd jettisoned the jacket and cummerbund. The sleeves of the formal shirt were rolled up, and he was wearing heavy engineer boots that looked like they could do damage just by coming near someone without having to actually land.

Lois pointed. "What's that in your pocket?"

Clive arched an eyebrow, purring, "Maybe I'm just glad to see you."

"Stop it. I meant your back pocket."

"Oh, these." Clive reached into his pocket and pulled out an evil looking set of brass knuckles, slipping them on. "These aren't actually brass, you know." He held out his hand, palm out, like a woman admiring a new manicure, then curved his hand into a deadly looking fist. "They're chromed steel, much harder and much more easy to accessorize. I dipped into my toy chest while I was at work."

"Toy chest?"

"Relax, dear. I don't actually use these with my playmates, but they're absolutely lovely for role playing. Now I can put them to practical use."

"You scare me."

He crooned, "I'm supposed to, precious. That is such a good attitude."

Jimmy came in, dispirited. "Well, one of the doormen saw a large black car with tinted windows come out of the alley right about the time the robbery was breaking up, but he didn't get a plate number, naturally. With the number of big, black cars there were around that place tonight, there's no way of positively identifying it." He spotted Clive's knucklewear. "Hey! Cool. Got another set for me?"

"Jimmy!" Lois squawked.

"Oh, stop it. The lad is showing spunk. I like that." Clive leered at Jimmy briefly, who looked startled. "Don't worry, Sparkly One..."

"Sparkly One?" The confusion was growing.

Clive sighed. "Oh, that hair. I really don't get enough redheads in the shop. Well, since you're so cute... I was going to use both of these..." He removed another set of knuckles from his other pocket and tossed them to Jimmy, "but since you asked so nicely. But only on condition that you promise me to use them on, please note ironic emphasis, whoever took our Scribe."

Jimmy curled his fingers through the holes, fitting the weapon across his knuckles, and regarded it with grim satisfaction. "Can do."

"You know, you really ought to make an appointment to have a trim."

Jimmy, wide eyed, regarded Clive. Clive regarded Jimmy, smirk firmly in place. "Uh... I'd have to think about it."

"You do that, dear. Maybe you could bring Scribe by for a nice wash and style after she gets through with this ordeal. She'll need to relax, I'm sure."

"I don't like to sit around waiting."

"Who said you'd have to?"

"Well, you couldn't very well fit two people in your chair at once, could you?"

"I can if you mean me and the client. But in any case, I have plenty of nice hooks on the wall."

Lois covered her ears. "I don't think I want to hear any more about this."

Clive was opening his mouth to say something else when the wire machine started racketting, and they all went to it to peer anxiously at the document that was slowly emerging. Don adjusted a few dials, murmuring, "Print's too light. There." the peered at the paper himself. "Hm. Looks like a city map."

It was about half-way printed. Jimmy leaned over, craning his head sideways to see it properly. "A city map with little circles in various areas. I'm guessing those indicate Luthor's properties. What are the little stars for?"

Lois looked. "According to the legend those are his suspected properties." She blinked. "Yow!"

Clive looked. "Yow is right. That thing has more stars than the commissary at Universal Studios. It would take an army of Jehovah's Witnesses to cover that much territory."

Don shivered. "What a thought!"

Clive smiled nostalgically. "Oh, I don't know... They can be a lot of fun if you get them trapped... *cough* I mean, if you challenge their assertions. Yes, that's it--challenge."

"You didn't!" Lois gasped.

Clive shrugged. "He still sends me Christmas cards. Is that thing through yet?"

"Almost." Don carefully tore the extruded paper off the machine, handling it carefully because of damp ink, and carried it over to lay it on a table. "Oh, my. There are dozens of little marks on this thing. You folks have your work cut out for you. Well, I'll be!"

This remark was occasioned by the entrance of Superman. He looked dejected. "I scanned the entire city and the surrounding countryside for five miles. You wouldn't believe how many screened rooms there are. All of them can't belong to Luthor. I think that people have been lead lining their bomb shelters since the Missile Crisis."

Lois indicated the map. "This may help. It shows Luthor's known and possible holdings in Metropolis. I suspect he got her under cover as quickly as possible, knowing that you'd be on the job, looking for her, so she's probably still in the city."

"That makes sense. If we move quickly enough, we should be able to keep him from moving her."

Don sat down with a thump. "Okay, I've seen it all now."

All eyes turned toward the door in time to see Batman and Robin enter. Lois and Jimmy gaped, Clive just leered. "Wow," Lois muttered. "I'm never going to question Wayne's ability to get co-operation again."

The Dark Knight nodded briskly to each of the group. He paused for a moment when Clive winked at him, then said,"We're here to help. Did the information arrive?"

Superman indicated the map. "We were about to consult on the best way to go about this."

"I would suggest dividing the area into sections, and having a team investigate each one. Each team is going to have to consist of someone who can pretty much handle the physical aspects of what might come up, and someone who doesn't feel any qualms about breaking-and-entering, if it's in a just cause."

Superman protested, "Batman, I can't just go breaking into..."

"That's why I said each team had to have someone to do that. Relax, you'll be the muscle of your team."

Clive shrugged. "Well, I qualify for either part."

"Six people. Two, or three teams?" Lois asked.

"I'd say three, to get the maximum amount of ground covered. Robin and I should take different partners, so that the crime fighting experience is equally spread out."

Clive murmured, "I'm all for having different partners." Everyone looked at him sharply. He made his eyes big, but somehow the innocent look just didn't work for him. "What?"

"All right. Let's say Superman and Lois, since you two have a certain amount of history working together. Dick, you take Jimmy with you, and I'll take Clive."

Clive put a hand over his heart. "I just got a shiver. However, you will be working with me, dear man. No one takes me."

Batman studied him levelly. Clive arched an eyebrow. Lois groaned, holding her forehead. Great. Now they'd have two of the would-be rescuers kicking each other's butts. To general shock, a small, stern smile flitted across Batman's lips. "We'll see. Come on." He left in a swirl of cape.

Clive fanned himself. "God, I knew there had to be something going on with that gear!" and hurried out.

Lois shook her head. "For some reason, I'm reminded of something that Scribe said."

The other's regarded her curiously. Jimmy spoke up, "Okay, I'll bite. What?"

"Well, it was something she said under her breath during that bidding war that Bruce and Luthor had. She kept looking back and forth between them while they were trying to metaphorically rip each other up, and she muttered, 'When tops collide...'"

Chapter Forty-six: Dry Humping versus Hand Jobs

*If I had any idea I'd end up without my panties I'd have made the damn skirt at least three inches longer. I feel like fucking Ally McBeal, except that there's no way in hell I'm skinny enough to pass as Calista.* Scribe was sitting on the edge of the bed in her cell, *yeah, there's no bars, but that's exactly what it is, even if it does look like Motel 6. Come to think of it, hasn't Motel 6 always had a slightly penal air to it? And that's penal, as in prisons, not penile, you horny-ass fates.* trying to get her hem to come at least halfway down her thighs. No luck.

She finally gave up, deciding to explore a little. *A very little. It ain't exactly like I have the final frontier here to keep me occupied. But there are the facilities.

She went into the restroom, and stopped short. "Oh, hell. This is not good."

'The Facilities' were shockingly lavish compared to the bland functionality of the other room. It was quite large for a bathroom. Besides the requisite throne and sink, there were other fixtures. The shower was the size of a closet, with multiple showerheads. The tub was marble, sunken, and the size of a wading pool. There was a hot tub, complete with jacuzzi. There was a padded massage table, which was rather alarmingly equipped with what looked like stirrups. And, finally, there were more mirrors than she'd seen anywhere outside of Clive's private station.

She shook her head in dismay. "I've fallen into a honeymoon suite in the Poconos." She started sifting through cabinets and drawers, and became even more alarmed. Besides certain sanitary necessities * I'll give 'im this: the bastard is efficient.* and large, fluffy towels, there was an assortment of luxury shampoos and conditioners *Clive would have an orgasm just looking at this stuff*, soaps, bath oils, bath salts, and bubble baths. But what had her shaking was the large selection of condoms, lubricants, and flavored massage oils. *Shit, I was wrong. It's not the Poconos: it's a fucking Penthouse Forum fantasy.*

Scribe briefly considered flushing as much of it as she could down the toilet, but decided not to. Things were miserable enough without having a stopped up john, and it wasn't like the man couldn't afford to buy more, was it?

The bathroom made her nervous. After quickly using it for the reason that such things had been invented in the first place, she went back out into her room. As he had said, there was a tiny refrigerator, and she rummaged through it. She located donuts and a pint of milk. She would have preferred a soda but hey, life wasn't perfect. "So I fight osteoperosis for once in my life," she muttered, ignoring the little paper cup provided to drink straight from the carton. (Mentally she classified this as 'getting in touch with her inner guy'). After a handful of powdered sugar pastry nuggets she was sugar-buzzed enough to perk up a little bit and begin to consider her situation.

She paced. * Exactly how much do I want to resist this person? Well, all right, I mean I want to resist all the way. But let's face it... I can't get out of this place, and he's bigger, stronger, and faster than I am. Even if I could get out of this room it's hellaciously improbable that I could outrun him, and either A, he'd be really, really pissed when he caught me, or B, perhaps more frightening, he'd think it was cute.*

She sat on the edge of the bed again, put her elbows on her knees, and propped her chin in her hands to think. *This is the pits. I don't want to lose my virginity to that... Oo, okay, mental pun coming here, but it's an appropriate name, prick. I'd much rather it was Jimmy, or Clive, or Kal-el, or Bruce/Batman, or Dick/Robin, or Lois... Wait a minute... Did what I did with her count as losing my girl/girl virginity? Or just plain... No, we didn't do that, so I suppose that technically I'm still... She sighed. "I shoulda teased Clive into leaving me unstrapped that last time. I bet if I jumped on him, he wouldn't say no. 'Oh, God!', and 'Harder!', but not 'no'."

She flopped back on the bed, sighing, and mumbled, "I wonder what the posse is doing now?"

*

They were in the process of splitting up. Each pair had a list of locations to investigate, and they scattered. Clive nobly refrained from pouting when he found out that they were going in a plain car rather than the Batmobile. "Oh, well. It's a dead sexy car, but so impractical."

"What do you mean, impractical?" Batman had asked testily.

Clive gave him a suggestive smile. "No back seat. Bucket seats instead of bench in front... Very cramped."

"On the plus side, it has a low, wide hood."

Clive looked at Batman closely, but he could do a pretty good poker face under that cowl. "I begin to think you're even more interesting than I first imagined. Okay, here's the first one on our list."

They pulled over to the curb and got out. Batman examined the building. "L.L. Lingerie?"

Clive looked surprised. "My goodness, you mean he's the owner? I keep copies of L.L. Lovelies catalogues at the shop for the ladies to browse while they wait." Clive could tell, somehow, that Batman was raising an eyebrow over that. "Oh, all right. After I look at them. Let's go. If he has her here, he's probably playing dress-up with her, like she's a Barbie doll. Just imagine, he could force her to put on all sorts of thongs, and demi-bras, and boustiers, and garters, and..."

"Excuse me, are you getting hard?"

Clive looked down. "Yes, I believe I am. You know, I really wish I'd left her untied the last time she came in. I think I got her frustrated enough to jump my bones." He sighed. "All the missed opportunities in life."

The door wasn't a match for a determined Dark Knight and Dominant cosmetologist, and they made short work of searching the premises. She wasn't there. They started out, and Batman said, "Clive? What's that black thing?"

"What black thing?"

"You're rotten at playing innocent. That black thing you stuffed in your back pocket."

"Um... nothing."

"Let me see."

"Oh, drat." He pulled it out and handed it over.

Batman examined the lacy scrap. "A peek-a-boo bra?"

"It's a present for Scribe, okay? She'll need something to cheer her up after this nonsense."

Batman dangled it, examining the cup size. "Is this going to fit her?"

Clive made a cupping motion with his hands, and smiled. "I haven't actually used a tape measure, but there are other ways of determining size."

Batman handed it back to him. "Get a nice gift bag for it, and say it's from me, too."

*

"Lois, this is only one of the suspected properties. Look, here's a little sign, with the owner's number on it, to call in case of any emergency. Why don't we find a phonebooth and..."

*sigh*

"I really hope no one finds out about this. It will be hard enough holding my head up at the Justice League after they find out that Scribe was snatched practically under my nose."

"Will you quit worrying about that? Find her and I promise you that no one is going to worry about a couple of little breaking-and-enterings. Damn, I put a cut in the leather on my hand bag that time! Give me a boost through the window, would you?"

"Just a second." He moved her to the side and used his bare hand to remove the jagged glass shards from the window frame. It still gave Lois the willies. No matter how often she saw demostrations of his invulnerability. She couldn't help but imagine doing something like that herself. Not a good idea. The science of reattaching amputated limbs wasn't as advanced over here as Scribe claimed it was in her universe.

He boosted her through the window, and followed. They found themselves in a small area, obviously a storage room, filled with boxes and large bags. "This is just a small one," she observed. "It won't take long. You take the front part, I'll take the back."

"Right." He opened a door that led in the right direction. A cacophany of animal noises washed over thme. There were a few woofs and mews, and a rising chorus of assorted bird twitters, including parrot screams. "What on earth?"

Lois peered past him. "I'll be darned. Luthor has an interest in a pet shop?"

"So it would seem. That would explain those large sacks: they're birdseed and pet food. This won't take but a moment." He went into the unlit front room, and Lois turned her attention to the room off to the side.

This seemed to be some sort of animal holding room. There were stacks of cages ranked along the wall. It only took Lois a moment to determine that Scribe was no where around. Then, curious as to why the animals were so quiet, she peered into a few cages. Well, that explained it: rabbits. Nothing but rabbits.

Superman came in. "She's not there."

"Here, either. But will you look at this? What on earth are they doing with so many rabbits? There can't be that big a demand in Metropolis for rabbits."

There was a clipboard hanging by the door, and it caught Superman's eye. He scanned it, and his expression became grim. Handing it to Lois he said, "I think this may explain it. Check out where they're to be delivered."

Lois read the paper, then looked up at Superman in horror. "Technoprobe Medical and Product Testing Laboratory!" Tears welled up in her eyes. "They're going to experiment on the bunnies!" Then her jaw firmed, and her eyes hardened. "No, they're not! Go open the back door."

"What are you going to do?"

"Exactly what Scribe would do!" She started opening cages and dropping rabbits on the floor. "Run! Run for your lives!"

*

Jimmy made a check mark on their list. "Okay. That's been an office supply place, a hardware store, and a malt shop. Damn, the man believes in diversification."

"And this is just locally," Robin agreed. "What's up next?"

"Um, it's not too far away." Jimmy grinned. "Oh, a comsmetic supply store. Clive should have gotten this one."

"I don't know, I think he might have become... overstimulated."

"Do you know him?" They got back in the car. Jimmy, too, had been rather disappointed that there was no Batmobile, but he understood.

"Mm... kinda."

Jimmy checked out Robin's hair. "Has he done your hair? I mean, could he, with the mask?"

"No, he hasn't. But from what I've experienced, the mask would be considered a bonus instead of a hinderence."

"Oh." They rode in silence for a moment. "He offered to cut my hair."

Robin glanced at him. "Go."

*

There were no results that evening. It was reluctantly decided that the incident had to be reported to the police. A certain amount of hedging was in order to explain why it had been several hours before they were notified, but the problem was big enough that they were pushed aside till later.

A missing person/all points bulliten went out immediately. Police became very thorough on inspecting the cars that they stopped for traffic violations, but most of the citizens didn't mind. At least not after the morning papers, with their screaming headlines about the disappearance of the current favorite celebrity. Lex Luthor's name was not mentioned in any official release, and for once nothing 'leaked'.

Besides the legalities of the situation (i.e., he could sue anyone involved into the next century), it was decided that he might decide to bolt if he knew they were on to him. ("Rather silly," Batman had avowed. "I know that arrogant prick, and he not only knows that we know, he's getting a kick out of the fact.")

A good number of neighborhood search parties were formed. Nothing was discovered, except for some fairly interesting secrets between neighbors. Who knew that many men kept secret stashes of lingerie?

Jimmy and Lois were bullied into going home for a little rest. 'Headquarters' had been set up at the hotel suite of Bruce Wayne and Dick Greyson. Batman and Robin had left to do something or other on their own, promising to be back in touch, and Superman was out on patrol.

Clive had flatly refused to go home. He'd cancelled his appointments (breaking several hearts) and was dozing in one of the bedrooms. Dick had peeked in on him to be sure he was comfortable, then joined Bruce in the living room of the suite. "He's conked. I didn't think he could, as agitated as he was. He's really worried about her."

"We all are."

"All he did was take off his boots." Dick smiled. "He has nice feet."

Bruce looked at him sharply. "You're developing some... eclectic interests since we came to Metropolis."

The young man looked at him blandly. "My horizons have been broadened. What do we do next?"

"Damned if I know. The only buildings left on the list are very public, major ones. I'm afraid that we may have to get search orders for them, and go in with the police."

"I don't like leaving her with him this long."

"Neither do I. But I have the feeling that Luthor isn't just going to... er... jump into the middle of things. I think he's going to try to draw this out for as long as he can."

"I just hope you're right about that."

*

Scribe glared at Luthor morosely when he entered the room, carrying a paper bag. He placed it on the night stand. "According to the magazine stories you like you hamburgers without pickles and with ketchup. I didn't have them add onions, for reasons which should be obvious."

"I get kidnapped by one of the richest men in the world and I get a hamburger for lunch? Cheap."

"Now, now. I'd be happy to provide you with cuisine that's a bit more haute, but you'll have to eat it with your fingers if I do."

"Do you mean to tell me you people don't have plastic cutlery yet?"

"We do, but I'm not giving you anything that even remotely resembles a knife or fork for the time being. You're a resourceful little minx, and might come up with something damaging."

"What about a spork?"

"A what?"

"One of my dimension's more bizarre, but practical inventions Say, tell you what. Let me go, and I'll tell you about it. It could add another million or so to your profits. I'll throw in pantyhose, too. You could really make a bundle off them. Anyway, it worked in Peggy Sue Got Married."

"You can, of course, tell me about these things later, if you wish. But money simply isn't a reasonable temptation with me, Scribe. I have more than I need, and I have no doubt that I'll always be able to get more."

"Pretty damn confident, aren't you?"

"I'm a megalomaniac. I thought you'd noticed. Now, before lunch, another little encounter." She edged back farther on the bed, warily. "Oh, it's still nothing for you to get too worried over. But I thought I'd give you a bit of a choice as to what I try next. Would you prefer giving me a hand job, or a nice little bit of dry humping?"

Scribe scowled, "First off, I refuse to be made a party to this by stating what could be taken as a 'preference'. Secondly," she flexed her fingers meaningfully. "Do you really want to get your private parts anywhere near my nails?"

He lifted his eyebrows. "Well, you're feeling feisty again. Good." He pulled two silk scarves out of his pockets. "The masturbation will just have to wait till I get you a little better trained."

"Trained? Are you calling me a bitch, you prick?"

"Semantics, semantics, when you have so much more to worry about."

He pounced.

There was a good bit of thrashing and swearing, all of it on Scribe's part. Luthor didn't get agitated even when she managed to land a knee within inches of its intended target. He sat back and tested the knots that were now binding her hands securely to the bars of the headboard, ignoring the aspersions she cast on his ancestry, and the suggestions about the moral health of his relationship with his mother. At last he rubbed his thigh. "I'm going to have a bruise there."

She became still, apprehensive. "Yeah, well. What did you expect?"

"Nothing less. Don't be worried, Scribe, you're reacting beautifully. I haven't had a real challenge in a long time." He ran a hand over her belly, and she kicked at him vigorously. He calmly pinned her legs down and sat on them.

*Fuck,* she thought dispiritedly. All the control you think you have in your life, then you run into someone physically stronger who doesn't give a damn about anything but what they want. All right, can't kick him, might as well try insult. Maybe I'll be lucky and get knocked unconscious. "Pretty pathetic, Luthor. You have to tie a woman down to get her? Sad."

"Good try." He peeled her top down, exposing the strapless bra. "That's nice." He ran a finger along the edge. "I have some much prettier products available from one of my companies, though. I'll get a sampling for you. A little modeling session would be fun."

"I am not a freaking Victoria's Secret model! Stop that!"

"Be quiet, or I'll take it off." Scribe scowled, but fell silent. "You know, things would be easier for you if you just realized that you didn't have any choice in this and co-operated, but I don't think that's very likely."

"Can you say, 'When pigs have wings?'"

"You're so colorful." He squeezed her bosom. She gritted her teeth, deliberately looking away. Again he traced the rim of the garment, drawing a fingertip thoughtfully over the swells and down the cleavage. "I'd spend a little time getting your nipples hard, but I don't want to be away from the office too long today. Someone might show up asking about you, and I need to be seen innocently working away. So we'll have to just get down to the main event."

He unbuckled and unzipped, spreading his fly, then pushed everything down his hips. "I know these sort of sessions usually begin with both parties more or less fully dressed, but I just don't want to come in my pants. The spare pair of trousers I have at the office don't go with the jacket I wore today."

When he worked himself free of the constraining fabric, Scribe spoke, voice shrill and alarmed, "You said you wouldn't!"

"I won't, not yet. Full intercourse is a good ways down the line. But I see why you're worried. Don't worry, I'll keep your skirt pulled down between us. Of course," he grabbed her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes, and his voice was silky. "If you struggle too much, it's entirely possible that that little scrap of cloth will get pushed aside. Then there's no telling what might happen."

So she didn't try to kick again when he moved on top of her and pushed a knee between her thighs. She turned her face away and closed her eyes, grateful that he didn't insist on trying to kiss her while this grotesque act was taking place. She didn't think she'd have been able to resist trying to bite a chunk out of him, and she had a feeling that retaliation would have been swift and very unpleasant.

In any case, she had to concentrate on breathing. He settled his weight over her, not trying to brace himself in any way, and he was heavy. True to his word, he made sure that her skirt was between their bodies, then began to rock his pelvis against hers. Luthor never took his eyes off her face during the entire encounter, drinking in every scrap of distress and disgust. It made him harder than ever, considering how he could eventually change those emotions to desire, however reluctant. Because he was quite sure that eventually he would make her want and enjoy sex with him. That was one thing about being a narcissist: very little self doubt.

She closed her eyes when she felt the warm liquid seeping through the fabric, thinking *God, this is so different from what I did with Kal-el. That was one of the sweetest experiences of my life. He was so gentle and considerate. It felt wonderful. This is degrading, and that's exactly what he was aiming for.

He finally rolled off of her with a sigh, and began to unknot the scarves. Her voice shaking a little, eyes still closed, she said, "All right, you pervert. What am I supposed to do about my dress now? I don't intend to let it stay in this state. That may have been fine for Monica, but I happen to think it's nasty."

"Feel free to rinse it out in the sink if you like. There's a robe in the dresser if you feel you must remain covered up." She felt him touch her face, almost gently, and swept her hand up violently, knocking his aside. "You really are going to fight this, aren't you? Suppose I told you that I'd give you a substantial sum of money in compensation. Say, oh, a million is a nice round figure. And I would, you needn't worry about my welshing on the deal."

"Oh. Then I'd be an expensive whore."

"Suppose I offered to set you up in a luxury apartment, with an unlimited allowance, servants, and the car of your choice?"

"Then I'd be an expensive, exclusive whore."

"Suppose I offered to marry you and make you my sole heir?"

"An expensive, exclusive, slave."

"My, my, my. Such ethics." Again a finger trailed down her cheek, and again she slapped it away. "Well, we'll see how you feel at the end of a few weeks."

Rubbing her wrists, she listened to him leave the room. When he was gone she opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling, feeling the bruises that he'd left on the inside of her thighs with his pounding, knowing how much worse it could have been, and whispered, "Weeks?"

Chapter Forty-seven: The Posse Gets Papered, and Dark Room Recognition Techniques

Lex Luthor's POV

I suppose I'm going to have to move her soon, dammit. And it's so convenient, having her right her in the office building. I misjudged, I'll admit it. I knew there was going to be a stir when I abducted her, but I had no idea that it would raise such a massive stink. Lord, this is as bad as when that aviator's brat was kidnaped thirty or forty years ago. What was his name? Lindsey... Limburger... Something like that. Who cares?

If I'd had more time to plan things out I could have made arraignments so that her loss wouldn't be noticed for a day or two. No, that's not right. It would have been noticed, and considered suspect, but I could have bought a little time before the efforts reached hysteria proportions. I've heard rumors that there's a movement afoot to try to increase public awareness (as if that's a problem) by printing her face on the side of milk cartons. I can't help thinking that she'd find that funny. I can almost hear her. "Milk? Come on, now. If they can get my face on cocktail napkins, though..."

In fact I had been considering different plans for obtaining her, but I hadn't found a satisfactory one by the time the auction rolled around. Then those ski-masked simpletons burst in, and... Well... There she was, on her own, no posse around, and things likely to be very chaotic for the next hour or so.

I'm not usually an impulsive man. I haven't gotten as far as I have by acting without thinking, but honestly, this was simply too tempting to pass up. You don't hold a chunk of sirloin in front of a Doberman's nose and expect him not to snap, so I bit.

It was ridiculously easy. The chloroform? Yes, I know I had it ready and waiting. I keep a supply on hand in various areas of my environment, along with other useful, and occasionally lethal, compounds and objects. I told you, I like to be prepared.

It surprises me a little how personally people are taking this. My receptionist had red-rimmed eyes when she brought me the paper. And when I had her call in the hamburger order for my 'guest's' lunch, she started sniffling. At my inquiring look she choked, "That's just exactly how Scribe likes her hamburgers. Everything but pickles, and extra ketchup."

"That reminds me. No onions."

She sighed. "Oh, sir. I'm so worried about her. Do you think she's all right?"

I stared at the woman. "I am not a psychic. Neither am I a soft shoulder to cry on. However I think that her life is in no danger at present."

"I hope you're right. But there's no telling what the rotten scoundrels who took her have done, or will do."

I was smiling before I realized it. "There I must agree with you. There's no telling, when you consider the almost infinite possibilities."

*

Overview

Clive came out of the bedroom, rubbing his eyes and yawning. "How long have I been asleep, and why didn't you wake me up? Oh..." His voice, already husky with sleep dropped to a growling purr. "hell-o." Robin and Batman were sitting on the couch, bent over a set of blueprints spread out on the coffee table. As they looked up he said, "Not that I'm not simply charmed to see you both again, but where are my darling hosts?"

"They had to return to Gotham," Batman said. "Some sort of emergency in one of the businesses, I'm not clear what."

Clive pouted a little, a sight to make women collapse and strong men weak in the knees. Robin was glad he was sitting down. "Well, he might have left young master Greyson behind--purely for courtesy reasons, you know."

"Dick doesn't spend that kind of time that far from home unless it's on a school outing." Batman said firmly.

Clive sat on the couch beside Robin. "This could have qualified. It was certainly educational for the dear boy." He looked at the blueprints. "What are we doing now?"

Robin explained. "These are blueprints for the three largest buildings in Metropolis owned solely by Lex Luthor. It wasn't easy to track the deeds down through all the dummy corporations he had set up, but we managed."

Clive leaned closer, casually putting a hand on Robin's shoulder for balance. Yeah. Right. "And what are we doing with them?"

"We're in the process of getting search warrants for all three," Batman eyed the hand, which had moved to toy with the hair at the nape of Robin's neck, but didn't comment. "It will take another couple of hours, so we've been familiarizing ourselves with the structural specifics in order to..."

"In order to be able to tell through discrepancies if there are any concealed areas. Oh, very cunning." Clive nodded.

Batman smiled a little. "Us, or him?"

"Both, but it means so much more coming from you. Have I thanked you yet for your efforts toward rescuing my little Scribe? If not, consider yourselves thanked. Unless you'd prefer a more personal thank you once we have the dear girl safe. Pardon me, I'm going to go check that mini bar and see if there's any orange juice."

He walked over to the mini bar and checked the little refrigerator, pleased to find a carton of orange juice, and poured himself a glass. He was just taking the first sip when Robin came over. "Is there enough there for two?"

Clive turned to retrieve the carton, but managed to brush his hip against Robin's in the process. "Dear boy, I always have enough for two. And there's plenty of juice, also."

As he poured another glass, Robin said, "You referred to her as your Scribe?"

"Oh, not technically." He passed the glass to the younger man. "I mean, we haven't entered into a Master/slave agreement. She has some submissive tendencies when she's playing, but she's far too independent for that." Robin was holding the glass, staring at Clive, his mouth slightly open. "You know," Clive reached over and put a finger under his chin, gently lifting to shut his mouth. "That's not entirely a good idea, dear. It might give some people certain ideas if you stand about with your mouth open."

"But you two haven't... had sex?" The last two words were low.

"Who's been spreading nasty rumors? Yes, we've had sex. We haven't had intercourse, but we've had sex. And a lovely thing she is, too. Very generous, and rather inventive. She managed to surprise an old warhorse like me a time or two, and that isn't easy." Clive sipped his juice, eyeing him critically. "You know, you ought to come in some time and let me do your hair."

"I can't take off the mask in public."

"Oh, I know that. I wouldn't ask you to. But you see, it's the mask that's the problem. Your hair is just going every which way around it, and I'm positive I could find a style that would allow it to be integrated so that it was a compliment rather than a detriment. If you'll allow me..." Clive set aside his glass and reached over laying his hands lightly on top of Robin's head. The surprised boy looked at him warily. The Dom said, "Relax, I'm not going to try to reveal your secret identity. I just want to get a sense of your hair."

*And that line works every time,* Clive thought as he began to slide his fingers through the short, gold-brown locks. "Oh, very nice. Very silky. You've been taking care of this. What a good boy you are." He began to finger comb the strands into place over the mask ends, them paused, frowning.

"What it is?" Robin asked, curious.

"I'm not sure... There was a bit of deja vu there for a moment. Let me..." He rummaged a bit more, expression questioning. "Wait a minute." He closed his eyes. Robin almost did, too. The firm, gentle hands in his hair were surprisingly erotic, and he was seriously considering taking Clive up on his offer.

Suddenly the hands were out of his hair and swooping down. Robin gasped as one snaked behind him and took a firm grip on a tights-clad buttock and the other cupped over his crotch, squeezing just as firmly. Clive's eyes flew open, astonished, and he whispered, "Dick?" Robin moved a few steps away quickly. The mask didn't cover enough space to conceal the fact that he was blushing. Clive tapped his foot, studying him and said in a low voice, "Come on now. Hair isn't just my profession, it's my vocation. I might have been mistaken about," he glanced down, smiling, "your personal equipment, but your hair? Never. And put them together, I'd know you in the dark. In fact," the grin was lascivious. "I have known you in the dark, haven't I?"

"Clive..."

"Oh, don't worry, precious. I can keep a secret. And I think it's perfectly delicious. So, that would mean that Bats..." He looked back across the room to where Batman was shuffling the blueprints. "Oh, my. That is simply marvelous. It explains how he's been able to fund his crime fighting career, and it makes much more sense than thinking that he's been supported by public donations from concerned citizens. The populace are a remarkable miserly lot these days."

"Seriously, Clive, you've got to be careful."

"I know, I know." He stepped close again, reaching around Robin and this time giving both buttocks a lingering squeeze before he stepped away. "I've grown very fond of that ass in a short time. You don't think I'd endanger it, do you?"

He walked back to the couch and sat down. "Now, then, which of these is his headquarters? I intend to be in the group that searches that one, and I want to be prepared."

*

Lois wandered into the kitchen to find Jimmy sitting at the table, staring moodily into a cup of coffee. She poured herself a cup and sat with him, eyeing him. He was so pale that his freckles stood out even more prominently than usual, and his bright hair was mussed, as if he'd been constantly running his hands through it. As she watched, he did just that, disarraying it even more, which she hadn't thought possible. Lois couldn't remember seeing him when his hair wasn't neatly combed, and he looked very young like this, and very troubled. "Jimmy, did you sleep at all?"

He sighed, shaking his head. "Couldn't, Lois." He glanced toward the back of the apartment, his eyes going to the door of Scribe's room. Lois had put him in there, insisting that it would be silly for him to sleep on the couch when there was a perfectly good bed available. When he'd still hesitated she had reminded him of what Scribe would have most likely had to say about the situation. Something along the lines of looking a gift horse in the mouth, and not being a stubborn prat. That had gotten a faint smile, and he'd agreed. "There was just too much of her there, you know?"

"I know."

"I tried." He rubbed his eyes. "I even laid down. But the pillow smelled like her. I couldn't take it." He looked at the pretty brunette. Lois' features were just a little sharper than usual. "And don't think I didn't hear you pacing in your room."

Lois sipped her coffee. "I managed a couple of hours of sleep. They weren't too restful, though. I had the most awful dreams."

"Scribe?"

She shuddered. "I don't want to discuss them. They're called nightmares for a reason. We've got to get her back soon, or I can't vouch for my continued emotional balance."

"Yeah. Funny how someone who makes a habit of keeping you off balance can seem so essential, isn't it?"

"When are they supposed to have the search warrants ready?"

He glanced at his watch. "Another hour. That'll give us time to shower. I just wish I had a change of clothes."

"Check Scribe's closet."

Jimmy blinked. "Lois, I can't wear girls' clothes."

She smiled. "Jimmy, remember, this is Scribe we're talking about. They're only girls' clothes because Scribe owns them, and she's a girl. They'll be perfectly fine for a young man."

He blushed slightly. "Oh. Um, yeah. Right."

There was a knock on the door. When Lois answered it, Clark was outside. "There you are. What have you been up to?"

"Same as everyone else--Scribe hunting. Without any success, I'm afraid. I did run into Superman. The dimensional barrier is starting to break down on the Phantom Zone, and he's working frantically to keep it from collapsing." *God, I hate lying to them, but I have to have some excuse for Superman to be out of the picture so Clark can be here. They'll accept it if Superman is keeping super criminals from invading the world, but Clark would have a hard time explaining why he wasn't around helping in the Scribe rescue.*

Lois frowned as she led him into the kitchen. "Oh, dear! As if we don't have enough trouble as it is. We can't figure out a way for Scribe to get back to her own dimension, but here we may have another one dumping psychopaths into our own."

"He was pretty sure he'd be able to repair the damage before that happened, but it will take a few days. He feels awful."

"He shouldn't. Scribe would understand, I'm sure."

Jimmy stood up. "Hi, Clark. Lois, I'm going to go shower. Then I'll see if I can get into Scribe's pants."

Clark stared after him, slack jawed. "But... I thought... She isn't... Lois?"

Lois sighed, and started to explain.

*

"Look, Perry, this is front page news, it belongs on the front page."

Perry White glared at the owner of the Daily Planet. "No, sir. This special search sweep depends on being a complete surprise."

"The paper will only be out a few minutes, an hour at most before they begin. Run the headline."

Perry crossed his arm, lowered his chin, and gave the owner a scowl that had intimidated copy boys and cub reporters for decades. "Look, that young woman works for me, and I feel a certain responsibility for her safety. Hell, I'd feel responsible even if I didn't know her personally. Printing that the police are set to more or less make a raid on Luthor's major holdings would endanger her, and I'm not going to do it."

"We'll discuss this tomorrow, along with whether or not it's time for you to make a career change." The owner, a pinched man so obsessed with sales that he would have made the same decision if it had been his granddaughter who had been kidnapped, turned to the print boss. "Run that story."

The print boss scratched his chin and drawled, "Well, it isn't as if I don't want to, boss, but..."

The pale face grew flushed. "But what?"

"Ya know, the presses just stopped for some reason. I've called for someone to look at them, but we're having a hard time getting ahold of our regular man, and if I let an apprentise mess around with those presses we could have a hell of a mess."

"Why can't you get ahold of your regular repairman?"

"I think he's out looking for Scribe."

*

The judge was reviewing the petition for search warrants that had been presented to him. "I want to grant these, I surely do. But I want to do it in a manner where some slick lawyer won't be able to get a case tossed out of court on a technicality."

The police commisioner fidgited. "Sir, if you'll pardon me... I appreciate your concern, and normally I'd stand back and say nothing. But in this case I think I should speak up. We have a time problem to consider here. The young woman has been in the hands, possibly literally, of her kidnaper since yesterday evening. Every moment's delay either brings her closer to unspeakable acts being visited upon her, or prolongs her ordeal. We must act quickly. I want the bastard brought to justice, too, but most of all I want her safe."

The judge tapped his pen on the desk, sighing. "Don't ever say this outside these chambers, but I agree with you. Let's see... The man has had previous contact, exhibited obsessive tendencies at the auction, and disappeared at the same time that the victim did." He started writing. "I just hope I don't get censured for this. Probable cause."

Chapter Forty-eight: It's Like Deja Vu, All Over Again

Everyone had wanted to be in the party that went to search Luthor's main office building, but it was decided that some of the original posse should be in each search party. Clive was automatically included. He simply made it clear that he was "going, no matter what you other dear, well meaning people decide. If she isn't there, this will give me the maximum opportunity to do a little creative cosmetic surgery." He was tapping his fist into his palm while he said this.

"Clive, be careful," warned Clark. "If it isn't clearly selfdefense, or to prevent immediate physical harm to Scribe, there could be trouble later."

"I don't know about everyone else," growled Batman, "But if Clive gets to Luthor before I do, I intend to develope temporary blindness."

Clive smiled at him. "I knew you were my kinda guy."

"We can discuss that after we rescue Scribe." Robin blinked at him. "What?"

"Nothing." *I think life at Wayne Manor is going to be a lot more interesting from now on.*

Lois went with Clark instead of Superman, but otherwise the pairs remained the same as they had been the previous night. The two reporters went with the group that was assigned an entertainment complex in downtown Metropolis. Jimmy and Robin were assigned to the group hitting a multi-level department store, and Clive and Batman went to Luthor's main office building.

The security guard at the desk looked up as the handsome blond man in the leather jacket leaned over his desk, smiling brightly. "Can I do something for you?"

"You certainly can, pet." Clive slapped an envelope on the desk.

The guard's eyes flashed wide as he noted the official seal printed on the front of the envelope. "Oh, another summons for Mr. Luthor? I thought they'd made arrangements to deliver those to his lawyer. Still..." He reached for a phone, "I can call upstairs and..."

"That won't be necessary." Clive's hand darted out, quick as a snake, and caught the guard's OTHER hand, which had begun to drift below the desk's top. He squeezed hard. Bones gritted together, and the guard paled. "And you can just keep that naughty hand far, far away from that fucking alarm button you have under there."

The police came through the main doors, right behind Batman, who nodded approval. "Good work, Clive. He'd have had them alerted before we got five feet inside the building if I or a uniformed officer had come in."

"My pleasure." Clive dragged the hapless guard across the desk and shoved him at an officer. "Please put that away somewhere. I'm sure you can come up with a nice obstruction or abetting charge somewhere."

"Material witness?" said the officer.

Clive shrugged. "Works for me."

The group of policemen and women scattered and began a systematic sweep of each floor. Any door that was locked, and could not be immediately UNLOCKED was forcibly opened. Some of the officiers, the rookies not long out of the academy, bot a wee bit enthusiastic, and in a short amount of time there was more than one door off it's hinges.

The two posse members didn't bother with searching the lower floors: they went directly to the penthouse office. On the way up Batman said, "Be prepared. Luthor probably has monitors somewhere in his office, and may be expecting us."

"That's all right, precious. I'm very seldom what people expect."

The reception area looked completely normal. The young woman with the Scribe haircut and the blood-shot eyes looked just as surprised as you would have expected her to look. "Can... can I help you gentlemen?"

Clive smiled charmingly. "Hello, love. We're here to see your boss."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Precious, if your boss had made an appointment with Batman, don't you think you would have remembered it?"

"I... suppose so. What is your business with him?"

"It's official." Batman had retrieved the papers, and he handed them over.

"Oh. Well, he's not in right now. He's gone to lunch."

Clive raised his eyebrows. "A bit early, isn't it?"

"You don't think I'd question him about that, do you?"

Batman said, "Young lady, there have been officers watching this building all morning, and they didn't see Luthor leave. Where is he?"

She looked puzzled. "Come to think of it, I didn't see him leave. He just called me on the intercom and said he was going out. I figured he went while I was getting supplies."

"Is there anywhere inside the building he might have gone to eat?" Batman asked. "I remember seeing a company cafeteria listed."

The girl giggled. "Mr. Luthor? Eating in the company cafeteria?" The giggles grew to chuckles, then full blown laughter. She finally sat down and held her sides.

Clive looked at Batman. "I think she means that it's highly unlikely."

"Miss, these papers allow us to search the premisis. You may continue with your work while we proceed." Batman said.

"Fine by me. This has been the high point of my job here so far."

They made quick work of it. There were only a few large rooms on that floor, and every cabinet and closet was thoroughly checked. Nothing. By the time they had finished, the rest of the search party had reached the top floor, and they conferred. Nothing.

"He could have her in a hidden room somewhere," Clive mused. He turned to the watching receptionist. "Dear, has there been any construction going on in the building lately? Any renovations or major redecorating?"

She shrugged. "Oh, there's almost always something going on."

"What was the most recent."

"Let me think." She pondered. "Um... They had to replace the carpeting and a lot of drywall in Communications on eight. They divided some larger offices into cubbyholes on the fifth floor. What else, what else? Oh, yes. Insulation replacement and panelling in Records, basement."

They started at Communications and worked their way down. The dry walling had only been replaced on outside walls, so there were no concealed spaces possible there. They checked the new cubbyholes carefully on the fifth floor, but there were no space discepencies that would indicate a hidden cell. On the way down to the basement, the officer who had joined them said, "It's beginning to look like she's not here. It would be kind of hard to hide any kind of secret space underground."

Batman gave him a level look. "Believe me, with enough money it's very possible."

Once in the basement they spread out again and began to search. Very soon Clive called Batman to a storage closet and pointed to a small pile of material. "One of the drones told me that was the insulation material left over from the job. It doesn't look quite right to me. Tell me what you think."

Batman lifted the edge of one of the rolls of material, studying it. Then he looked up grimly. "You're right. This isn't insulation, it's soundproofing material."

Clive's eyebrows lifted, then lowered dangerously. "Ah-hah. Time for another tour, and some very careful pacing off of distance."

*

Scribe hadn't wanted to remove the dress any longer than absolutely necessary. She rinsed the front of the skirt part in the sink, then put it back on and wrapped it in a towel to absorb most of the moisture. *So I have cold thighs more an hour or two. I'm not sitting around here in the buff like some damn... uh... Okay, what's an example of a woman who sits around naked waiting for some guy to show up and use them? Mm. Houri? The geishas wear kimonos.* She sighed. *Trapped like a mouse, and I'm going over semantics. Ya got other things to worry about, Scribe.*

Which was demonstrated rather forcefully when the door to the outside opened again and Luthor entered. She'd been sitting on the far side of the bed. Now she got up and edged away. "Look, my skirt hasn't even had a chance to dry."

"That's all right." He shut the door, locking it. "We can hang it up to dry. Though I have a feeling that it may not be in salvageable condition after this session. Pity. I rather like it. Oh, well, I'm sure I'll be able to buy a knock-off in any number of stores in a few days."

Scribe watched nervously as he removed his jacket, laying it over the foot of the bed, then pulled off his tie. "I started my period." she said.

He began unbuttoning his shirt. "Not according to the calendar from your physical. You aren't due for at least a week. In any case, that's all right." He smiled as he pulled off his shirt. "It will delay the oral sex, but I see no reason why it should be a barrier to intercourse."

Scribe stared at him in disbelief. "You have to be kidding."

"Not at all." He unlaced and removed his shoes. "In fact, it would be rather convenient. I forgot to bring any lubrication. Since this is your first time, I don't expect you'll lubricate naturally. The flow would make things easier on you."

She darted into the bathroom and slammed the door. There was a soft tap. She heard Luthor say, "Well, if you'd really rather do it in there, it's fine by me. I just thought you'd prefer a nice, soft bed to cold tile, but since you're the one who's going to be on the bottom, it's up to you."

"Luthor, let me go and I won't press charges for anything you've done so far. Cross my heart."

"That's very sweet of you Scribe. But even if I believed you, we both know that this has gone too far to be swept under the judicial rug. The state would find some way to press charges, so I might as well get something out of it. Now, be a good girl and open the door. I'm feeling a bit... impatient."

"I'd tell you to go to hell, but I have no doubt that is where you came from in the first place."

"Flatterer." A sigh. "I should have had the lock on this door disabled, I suppose. Oh, well..."

The door was suddenly shivered in its frame by a blow so hard that it bounced Scribe away from where she had been pressed against it. *Oh, damn. I forgot how massive that sucker is.* There was another blow, and the crackling, screeching sound of hinges beginning to tear away from wood. Scribe squeezed her eyes shut. *Okay, God, it's crunch time here. I know I may have kind of fudged on a few of the finer points of the commandments, but you know I try to do right. I would really, really appreciate a little assist right now. And if that isn't going to happen, then could you pretty please make me pass out early on in this encounter? I'd really appreciate it...*

The third blow knocked the door loose. Luthor pushed it open on the wobbling hinges and stepped inside. He was panting a little, and his face was flushed. His dark eyes glittered as he smiled at the woman who was trying to back through the far wall. "You know, it's been a long time since I actually had to work for it. I'd forgotten how satisfying it could be to come to the end of a successful pursuit."

Scribe's chin went up. She was trembling, and here eyes were terrified, but her voice was clear. "Yeah, big, bad hunter. Just about as impressive as those assholes who pay to have domesticated big game turned loose on fenced-in land so they can blast them for a trophy."

"I could make some lurid jokes about stuffing and mounting, but frankly, I'm too aroused right now to bother. Come here."

"Fuck you."

"Oh, yes." He sprang at her.

*

"Nothing. We've been through this entire basement twice, and there's nothing!" grumbled the policeman. "She isn't here. We should go check on what the other groups have come up with."

Batman was watching Clive stalk up and down the central corridor. His fists were clenched at his side, and his handsome face was pale with anger and frustration. "No. My lamb is here, I know she is. I can feel it."

"I hate to have to admit it, Clive, but it looks like he's right. Perhaps we should go back upstairs. If Luthor has returned from wherever he went, we may be able to lean on him for some answers."

Clive had stopped in the middle of the hall and was staring at a picture. The walls were lined with tasteful prints, hung at intervals. The cosmetologist lookd very thoughtful. "Batman, what's wrong with the decore here?"

Batman frowned. "I don't bother much with decoration."

Clive glanced at him. "Hm, yes. I'm sure that a few stalagtites in the Batcave go a long way. But look at this." He pointed. "Starting at each end of the hallway. Picture, picture, picture, between doors. Then this."

He indicated the large picture before him. It was actually a framed poster for a popular theatrical production that had been running for some years in one of Metropolis' finer theaters. "Your point?"

"Well, it just doesn't fit. It thows off the balance." Clive took hold of the frame.

One of the employees who'd been watching from their office piped up, "You shouldn't do that. Mr. Luthor will be angry. He picked out that and hung it himself."

"Did he now? All the more reason."

Clive lifted down the poster and, holding it, turned slightly so he could look at the space that had been concealed. The employees jumped, squawking, as glass shattered when Clive tossed the picture down on the tiled floor. He reached out and touched a fingertip to a flat metalic circle that was at waist height on the paneling. He turned burning, triumphant eyes on Batman and hissed, "Keyhole."

Batman reached into his utility belt. "I have a lockpick..."

"No need, darling." Clive lifted his foot and kicked the door in.

*

It wasn't going to do any good to scream, she knew that. It would only be a waste of breath and energy, and would probably tittilate Luthor even more, but she really didn't have any choice in the matter. It was more or less instinct. A large, horny sociopath grabs you: you scream. Simple progression.

She'd always known she had a good set of lungs, but with the scream revirbrating off all the mirrored surfaces in the bathroom, it was even more impressive. And the bastard was laughing, saying, "That's lovely! What sort of noises are you going to make when I get inside?"

She struggled, but there wasn't much she could do. He was ready for the knees, and those were her most effective defense. Still, she tried. She managed to get her nails into his face. That was when he slapped her. For a moment she was dazed, half stunned. He took the opportunity to rip the neckline of her dress down to her waist.

"I didn't really want to do that, Scribe."

"Sure you didn't. Let's see you explain the grooves in your face to everyone outside, you bastard."

"I'll think of something. Perhaps a mugging. I'll report the results the next time I come in to fuck you, but you don't need to worry about that right now." He had hold of her arms in a grip that was going to leave circles of bruises, and he pushed her down to the floor.

The tile really was cold...

There was a crash, then a boom. She found out later that the crash was Clive kicking the door in, and the boom was the sound of it hitting the wall.

Clive was looking through the freshly cleared doorway, and his line of sight was directly into the bathroom on the other side of the room. The sight of the tangled, heaving pair of bodies on the floor elicited a murderous roar.

Even if Batman had wanted to halt him it's doubtful that he could have. Clive could be very quick when he was motivated, even in those heavy boots. He couldn't put the boots into action quite as quickly as he wanted to, for fear of missing his mark and injuring the squirming, shrieking Scribe. So he just grabbed Luthor by the still thankfully fastened belt and then performed the rather impressive feat of jerking the larger man completely off his victim.

Luthor tried to scramble to his feet, but caught a size ten steel toed boot square in the chest, and was flung back against the wall. Behind him a policeman shouted, "You'll break ribs like that!"

"Ribs are a secondary target," Clive snarled. "I was aiming for his face."

Luthor saw Batman and a slew of uniformed officers crowding into the outer room, and did a rapid assessment of the situation. He stayed on the floor, held up his hands, and said, "I surrender. Read me my rights, then I want a lawyer."

"You have the right to piss off." Luthor got his arms up in time to bear the brunt of Clive's next kick. But a bone in his forearm snapped, and he gave himself a bloody nose when the arms were driven back into his face.

"Clive!" Batman shouted. "Stop it! She's safe, and you're going to get yourself up on assault charges."

"Like I fucking care!" Clive kicked again. Luthor wisely tried to turn, and caught it low on his back, right above the kidney. He was probably going to pee blood for a few days.

Scribe, shaking in the corner, nevertheless realized that there was only one way to stop her friend from getting himself into serious trouble. She called plaintively, "Clive!"

He hesitated, foot lifted to deliver a blow to Luthor's head that would likely have caused brain damage, and looked over at her. Clutching her torn dress as high as she could with one hand, she help out her other pleadingly. The red rage faded from his eyes as he turned from the man who was crumpling against the wall.

As he went to her, Batman stepped in and clapped cuffs on Luthor. Then he stepped out so two uniformed policemen could get him up and manuever him out of the room, one of them carefully reading his Miranda rights off a card. There were going to be very careful about all the details.

Clive went to Scribe, crouching down beside her, and pulled the shivering woman into his arms. She clung to him, finally starting to cry. Clive stroked her hair. "Baby girl, are you all right?" He made a hissing sound. "Clive, you idiot! Of course she's not all right! She had a hulking great maniac on top of her!"

"No, I'm okay. He didn't... he... not yet. I... um... I'm still intact."

Clive kissed her forehead. "Thank God, darling."

"Sucker ruined my dress. And I worked so hard on it."

"Oh, precious, look at you." Clive slipped off his leather jacket and helped her put it on. "That takes care of the top part, but..." He blinked. "Whoopsies! Where are your knickers? I know you had them at the party: I helped you dress."

"Psycho tycoon took 'em as a souvenier."

"The swine. Not a bad choice, but one doesn't do that without asking permission."

Scribe hugged his neck. "God, I'm so glad to see you! You're making a habit of rescuing me in bathrooms, aren't you?"

"It's not that I mind, darling, but why don't we try to find some activity we can do together that's a wee bit less of a strain on the nerves? Can you stand up, pet, or shall I carry you?"

"I was carried in here. I'd rather leave on my own two feet."

"That's my girl." He helped her to her feet.

Batman stepped forward. "Miss Scribe. Glad to meet you, though I wish it had been under more pleasant circumstances. I've had one of the officers call an ambulance, and they should be here shortly. In the meantime..." He fiddled with his collar and pulled off the cape, handing it to Clive. "this detaches."

Clive wrapped the black, silky material around her shoulders and ushered her out of the bathroom. He took one look at the anxious faces of the gathered policemen and said, "Relax, boys. We were in time." There was spontaneous applause.

By the time they made their way up to the ground floor, walking past open mouthed, whispering Luthor employees, the ambulance had arrived. They gave Scribe the quick, regulation check over of pulse, BP, pupil dilation, etc. Then they tried to convince her to let them strap her to to the stretcher. She clutched at Clive. "No way! He's the only one I'm ever gonna let use restraints on me again."

When they looked confused, Clive said, "Don't worry, I'll help her out to your bus. Just clear a path, please." As they approached the front door, they saw that, though a path had been cleared to the waiting ambulance, it was lined with jostling photographers. Clive sighed. "Sweety, are you sure you don't want to wrap up in this cape and let me carry you to your chariot?"

She patted his cheek. "No, Clive. Yeah, most of it's hype, but there were a lot of people out there genuinely worried about me. I want to set their minds at ease as quickly as I can. Besides, that turkey isn't going to turn me into a cowering, whimpering blob." She squared her shoulders, eyes narrowing. "I am strong. I am invinsible. I am woman. I am full of myself, but I deserve to be right now."

She stood at the door, wrapped the cape a little more jauntily, and whispered over her shoulder, "Just be there to catch me in case I've over-estimated myself. It's happened before, ya know." Then she swept the door open, lifted her head with a cocky smile, and stepped out into the strope of the popping flashbulbs.

Chapter Forty-nine: Lead Up to Next Chapter Smut, So You Can Skip This One If That's The Only Reason You Read This

"No."

"Scribe, I can understand that you're uncomfortable with the idea, but procedures require..."

"No."

"I don't want to insist, but..."

"Clive?"

A heavy hand fell on the doctor's shoulder, and he looked around at a pair of hard brown eyes. "Precious," Clive's voice was low and reasonable, but there was an undertone that told him he'd better listen very carefully. "she said no. No rape test."

"But..."

"She said nothing happened. Are you going to tell me that you don't believe her?"

"Oh, no. I would never say that."

"I'm so glad. She knows that I occasionally kick ass, but I'd rather not do it in public if it can be avoided. Now, then, you've done the thermometer, the stethoscope, and the blood pressure cuff. You've peered into her eyes, ears, throat, and even up her cute little turned-up nose. Are you satisfied yet?"

"I suppose so."

"Then you can go now. It's a bit crowded in here, anyway."

It was. The examining room was small. Besides Scribe, perched on the exam table, and the doctor there was Clive, Lois, Jimmy, and Batman and Robin. The only reason Clark wasn't there was that he'd been deputized to go get some clothes for Scribe. The doctor had tried to order the others out at the beginning of the exam and had met with a spectacular lack of success. "Okay. I'll go make arrangements for a private room."

"No."

"Of course you could have a semi-private, but I thought you'd prefer..."

"No."

He looked at Clive. "Can she say anything other than 'no'?"

Clive smirked. "You'd be surprised, precious. I believe that she means that she doesn't intend to stay in the hospital."

"Yes."

"Oh, now, really, Miss Scribe..."

"Enough of this stoic, monosyllabic crap. I spent a lot of time not being able to talk to anyone while I was cooped up in that fruitcake's holding cell. Doc, I know you mean well, but I'm fine, really, aside from a couple of bruises and some mental and emotional shake-ups. I'm not taking up bed space that could be put to better use. Now, toddle off and see to someone who needs you right now. We'll check in with the nurse before I go."

The doctor thought about protesting, but he was receiving hard stares from everyone in the room, so he decided against it. Oh, well. He was going to have enough stories to get him invited out to dinner for months. He left.

Scribe shifted on the table, tightening the sheet around her shoulders. "I wish I'd sat on this thing. The leatherette is sticking to me. I'll have to peel myself off it."

"That's why I only use genuine leather for my upholstery," Clive remarked.

"Why didn't you sit on it?" Jimmy asked.

"Because then I wouldn't have been able to wrap up, and hospital gowns in this world are not any more modest than they are in my world. I've been given the once over, and I want out of here as soon as Clark gets back with my duds."

"There's a problem, though," Lois said hesitantly. "My landlady. She's making noises about my having a roommate. She's talking about breaking my lease. Normally I'd tell her to go... um..."

"Fuck herself," Clive supplied helpfully.

"Yes. But I haven't been able to locate anywhere else yet, and..."

"Lo, you can't lose your place because of me! Oh, hell. It was bad enough before, but now that this has happened you wouldn't have had a second's peace, anyway. What about the YWCA?" Blank looks. "You mean to tell me that you have YMCAs and not YWCAs? Gawd, how politically incorrect. Remind me to picket when I get a chance."

"I'm sure Bruce Wayne would be happy to have you at Wayne Manor for a while," said Batman. Robin perked up. Clive smiled.

Scribe said gently, "That would be lovely, and I'd like to drop by some time in the future, but for right now I'm pretty sure that the authorities would prefer I stayed in town."

Jimmy sighed. "They don't allow unmarried couples at my place, and I think it's the same for Clark. What are we going to do?"

"Simple," Clive said. "She'll stay with me." Scribe smiled.

"But," Lois protested, "Won't there be the same problem with you?"

"Not at all. I don’t have a nosy landlord. I am the landlord, and I have a spare bedroom." He arched an eyebrow at Scribe. "if she insists on sleeping alone."

She leaned over, kissing him on the cheek. "Thanks, doll."

"I certainly hope you weren't expecting any less."

"I wouldn't dare."

Clark entered the room, carrying a bundle of clothes. "Did I miss anything?"

"Mm, only Scribe's decision to shack up with me."

Clark gaped. Scribe poked Clive. "Clive, don't tease the vanilla people: it's not nice. Clark, hand me my clothes and either rig me a screen or get everyone out of here."

Clive started shooing people outside. "You get dressed, sweetie. I'm going to start setting up a way out of here for you."

When the room emptied out, Scribe started to get out of the gown and into her own clothes. That was soothing in itself. The sheer familiarity smoothed some of the rough edges. She was particularly happy to get into her panties and her plain bra. My own personal version of armor.

When she was finished she opened the door to find the posse waiting in the hall. Clive was leaning on the handles of a wheelchair, which had a couple of blankets piled in the seat. Clive smiled at her. "Ready to give birth, pet?"

She returned the smile. "Sure. Clark? I need to ask a favor."

A few minutes later the crowd around the front entrance perked up. But they settled back, at least a little, when they got a look at who was exiting. Yes, that was a woman in the wheelchair, and she had the right type of hair, but so many women had that type of hair these days. Anyway, she was wearing glasses, and she was cooing to a blanket wrapped bundle. The blonde man pushing her was leaning over her shoulder, making faces at the bundle. Just a couple of new parents, taking the baby home.

They decided that they must be fairly well-to-do new parents. The black car that pulled up for them was big and expensive. The father took the baby while a driver who'd gotten out of the car helped the woman up out of the chair. She got into the back seat, and Daddy leaned down to hand over Junior.

The few that were still watching noticed that the blanket wrapped bundle squirmed very strongly, and there was a thin cry. Daddy quickly got in and the car drove off, and they went back to watching the hospital.

In the back of the car Bruce Wayne had sent, Scribe rocked the bundle as a thin wail filled the car. "My God, darling, what a noise," Clive drawled.

"Well, he doesn't like laying on his back." Clive unwrapped the bundle. A large tabby tomcat leapt down and grumbled a few more times before crouching on the floor. When Scribe reached down and scratched it behind the ears, it started to purr. "I think he did beautifully for someone commandeered from the alley behind the kitchen. Can I keep him?"

Clive sighed. "Oh, dear. Well, I suppose I can borrow some kitty litter from my downstairs tenant, and I have the box my last leather jacket came in for a temporary litter box." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, and he smiled at her. "But if he claws my furnishings he lives in the bathroom till we find another home for him."

She hugged his neck. "At least you didn't say he'd end up as a muff."

He arched an eyebrow. "Possibly as lining for a pair of leather cuffs, but not if you really like him, pet."

Clark, who was driving, held a hand out over the back seat. "Can I have my glasses back now?" She handed them over.

Clive's place turned out to be a very nice two-story brick building, with two apartments on the ground floor and one above. As they pulled up to the curb before it, Clark said, "The records of Luthor's research facilities have been subpoenaed, and Superman will be going over them as soon as possible. There's a chance, a good chance, that we may uncover something that will at least let you contact your own world, if not get back to it."

She gave him a hug. "Tell him thank you for me, sweetie."

Clark's voice was soft. "He's just sorry that he wasn't able to do more for you."

Scribe kissed his cheek. "Give him that, and tell him that I know he did everything he could."

Clive remarked, as he helped her out, "I wouldn't mind seeing him deliver that."

"Clive, is there ever a moment when you don't think about sex?"

He paused at the foot of the staircase. "Um... sometimes I think about food, but then I often begin thinking of how it could be used in sex play."

"Thought so."

"You go on up, dear. It won't take but a moment for me to get supplies from Mrs. Havasnark."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me correctly. Havasnark, and I have no idea where it came from. She's a rather theatrical old lady with ten cats, an odd name, and a thick Hungarian accent. I think she acquired all or some of the above purposefully."

Scribe climbed the stairs slowly and carefully, smiling when she heard the chorus of mews that filled the lower hall as the Clive had knocked on. An elderly, but strong, voice, said, "Nu? Clive, bubbie!" The tabby in her arms stirred and looked interested. She murmured, "Dream on."

A few moments later Clive climbed up to meet her. He was carrying an enamel roasting pan which contained a half-sack of kitty litter and several cans of cat food, and a covered plate. "Mrs. Havasnark sends cat gravel, cat food, a temporary potty, a snack, and her love. Dear, do you think that you might go visit her sometime later on? She's a dear, and she doesn't get out."

"I'd love to. Anyone who's cat dependent is all right by me."

Clive unlocked the apartment door and ushered her in. "Have a seat, precious, while I set up his lordship's facilities. There's a utility closet I can clear a little space in, and I'll leave the door cracked."

She sat the cat down and pointed at Clive's disappearing back. "You'll want to know where he's setting that up." The cat mewed and trotted after him.

Scribe heard a couple of clunks, then the hiss of litter filling the pan. Then she heard Clive saying testily, "Well, just a minute!" Yowl "For heaven's sake, I'm almost done. Will you just..." Another clunk. "There." Then there was a rapid scrabbling sound. "Oh, well, pardon me! I'll just give you a bit of privacy."

Clive came out, shaking his head. "At least he appears to be housetrained. Have you settled on a name for him?"

"Tietlebaum."

Clive blinked. "Ah. Any particular reason?"

"Absolutely none. It's the first one that came to mind. Would you prefer 'Fritz', 'Garfield', or 'Sylvester'." A blank look. "No, they wouldn't mean anything to you. Would you prefer 'Fluffy'?"

"God, no, precious." He sat beside her. "I told her I could feed... uh... Tietlebaum from my own larder, but she insisted that the commercial stuff was better for him if we hadn't made a study of feline nutritional needs."

"I've heard that."

Clive picked up the foil covered plate from the coffee table and peeled back the cover. "Let's see what she sent. Ah." He picked up a powdered sugar covered ball and examined it with satisfaction.

Scribe looked interested. "Donut holes?"

"Pfeffernusse." He munched happily. When she looked doubtful. "Try one, dear. They're like us: sweet and spicy." She tried one, and they weren't bad. A little like a round, sugar coated gingersnap. After she ate a few more she felt even more relaxed.

"Now," Clive dusted his hands. "You ought to get some sleep." He cocked his head. "Shall I make up the bed in the spare room?"

Scribe looked back at him, then crawled on his lap and put her arms around his neck, resting her head on his shoulder. "No."

"Oh." He put an arm around her, cradling her head against his shoulder with the other hand. "Really, darling, now that we're away from the maddening crowd, how are you?"

"Still a little shaky, Clive." She sighed. "I always feel safe with you." She smiled. "Well, since about halfway through my first haircut."

He kissed her forehead. "Good."

"I really trust you."

"I'm glad."

"Would you like to take my virginity?" Silence. "Clive?"

"I'm here, precious. I'm just surprised. Stunned, actually. I'd say speechless, but if I can say speechless, then I'm not, am I?"

"Clive? Are you babbling?"

"I believe I am."

Her voice small, she said, "So I guess that means you don't want to."

"Scribe," he pulled her head back gently to look into her eyes. "Of course I want to. Why would you think that I wouldn't?"

"Well, you didn't. You haven't. You said you weren't going to do anything to endanger my maidenhood, so I thought maybe the idea of deflowering someone was kind of distasteful to you."

"Sweetie, I didn't do it then because you weren't ready for it then. Can I ask why you chose me, though?"

"Well, duh! You're Clive."

He smiled. "There is that. But you have so many possibilities, dear. There's that spectacled hunk who brought us here, and that delicious redhead to begin with, not to mention practically any male in Metropolis who's achieved puberty and not yet attained senility."

"Clive, you're the first to rock my world. I like you, I care about you, I sort of love you. I want you to be my first all the way. Besides, if I can have the best, why should I settle?"

"Oh, you shameless flatterer. I love you for that." He kissed her and stood, picking her up in his arms and beginning to walk toward the bedroom. "Precious, would it be all right with you if I went vanilla for this?"

She giggled. "Sure, why not try something different?"

Chapter Fifty: Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life, and Oops!

Scribe peered around Clive’s bedroom curiously as he carried her in. He paused just inside the door. "What, Precious?"

"Well..."

"Let me guess. You were expecting Dungeon Modern, or perhaps Gothic Revival?"

"Sort of."

"Playroom."

"Ah."

"We can visit that sometime later, if you want, but right now we’re aiming for a very traditional deflowering."

Clive’s room came as a bit of a surprise. Scribe had expected lots of black, perhaps with scarlet and silver accents. She wouldn’t have blinked at wall shackles or ceiling hooks--perhaps a trapeze. Instead it was...

Well, it wasn’t Martha Stewart or Laura Ashley, but it wasn’t Alister Crowely, either. It was darkly paneled, but that was offset by the sunlight streaming through the French doors that opened onto a small balcony. The highly polished hardwood floor was a shade or two lighter than the paneling. At least the narrow strip she could see around the edges of the huge, rich oriental rug was.

In contrast the two night stands and huge dresser were in pale woods, and the drapes and bedspread were the color of raw honey--almost exactly the shade of Clive’s hair. The bed itself...

As Clive deposited her beside it she remarked, "Somehow I never pictured you as having a brass bed."

Clive paused in the act of turning down the coverlet. "Why ever not, darling?" He gripped one of the headboard’s rails (which looked very sturdy) and shook it. "Have you ever in your life seen so many lovely restraint opportunities?"

Scribe couldn’t help a smile. "Nope." Reaching down, she ran her hand over the ivory colored sheets, and her eyes widened. "Wow!" She unhesitatingly threw herself face first across the bed and wriggled ecstatically.

Clive watched her fondly, then said dryly, "Scribe, if you insist on presenting your rump like that I may not be able to keep my resolve to stick to the strictly non-kinky." She wiggled her bottom again. "I’m warning you--I have a hard time resisting moving targets."

She rolled onto her back. "I love these sheets. I want to marry them and have their babies. Or would that be handkerchiefs? Seriously, I’d like clothes made out of them."

"You have good taste. They are 200 thread count imported linen--obscenely expensive, and yes, I will be putting down something to prevent the infamous ‘wet spot’. I’ll be right back."

He went into the bathroom. Scribe caught a glimpse of black marble. Raising her voice she called, "Betcha have tether hooks in the shower."

"You know me too well, pet." He came back out, carrying what looked like an armload of white terry cloth. "Up."

She stood. "Yes, sir."

He began to spread the folded bath sheet over the mattress, neatly tucking the ends under the mattress. "You know, love, it’s a shame you’re not a full submissive. You have such marvelous instincts. Most nice little white-bread women would have run screaming out of Attitudes the first time I told them the rules."

"Don’t think it didn’t cross my mind."

He stood back up and regarded her, his hands on his hips. "And why, pray tell, didn’t you?"

"I figured you’d chase me down and drag me back, and I decided to preserve a little dignity."

"Wise child." He reached out and touched her cheek. "This is the last time I’ll ask, dear. Are you very sure about this?" She nodded slowly. She was smiling, but her eyes were serious. "Yes, I see you are. Still, I want you to choose some safe words. One for go slow, one for go on, and one for stop."

"I trust you, Clive."

"I know, pet, and you’re right to trust me, but we’re going to do this because I want this to be as near perfect for you as possible. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tease. All right. Go slow?"

She thought. "Perry."

"Beg pardon?"

"Perry--for Perry Como, one of the slowest guys in my world."

"If you say so. Perry--go slow. Now, go on?"

"Bunny."

Clive stared at her. "I’m sure you have a reason for that, but I’m not sure I want to hear it."

"The Energizer Bunny. He keeps going, and going, and going..."

"You know, pet, I want to visit your world once you find your way back. It sounds fascinating. Bunny--go on. And stop?"

"Fly."

"Because?"

"Because it’s more likely that pigs will fly than I will stop you, and ‘pigs’ just isn’t romantic enough."

He laughed. "True. So, Perry, bunny, and fly." Clive put his hands on her shoulders, leaned forward, and kissed her lightly. "We’re going to be very, very good to each other, Miss Scribe. Now, why don’t we get out of these things?"

As Clive began to unbutton her shirt she said, "You know, after all we’ve been through together, this is going to be the first time we’ve both been entirely naked at the same time?"

He had stepped behind her and was unhooking her bra. "I could keep my belt on, it that will make you more comfortable."

She twisted her head to look back at him. "How big is the buckle?" He laughed. "No, seriously. I’m from Texas--land of the hubcap-sized belt buckles. That could be truly hazardous. Whoa..."

She trailed off as Clive reached under her arms and cupped her breasts, squeezing gently. "Mm. Perhaps there is a way to quiet you without gagging you."

"Not necessarily, though I expect there’s going to come a point when I can’t form coherent speech." He rubbed his thumbs over her nipples, bringing them to stiff points, and she purred. "That point isn’t too far away, if you keep doing stuff like that."

Still standing behind her, Clive let his hands slide down her torso to rest on her waistband. He pressed his crotch against her rump, and Scribe felt a warm, firm bulge. He humped slowly as he opened her pants, and, her voice becoming breathy, she said, "I guess the reason you’re so good at doing things from behind someone is all that practice you got as a hairdresser."

"Possibly. The fact that I like to watch what I’m doing in a mirror may account for some of it." He slid his hand down the front of her panties, combing through her pubic thatch, and sighed. "I do so love your hair--all of it." He pushed deeper, and smiled. "My, wet already. You’re such a sensitive little thing. I think you may get twosies out of this, pet."

Clive pushed her clothes down her hips, and she stepped out of them. "Repose yourself, child, while I get ready." Scribe stretched out comfortably on the bed, and wiggled luxuriously against the smooth sheets as Clive went about his preparations. It didn’t take long. He was soon back with a pan of steaming water and some cloths, which he deposited on the night stand.

Then he opened the night stand drawer and removed two wrapped condoms, setting them beside the basin. Scribe said, "Two? Planning some extracurricular activity?"

"Unless it’s a carefully planned scene, you never know where things will lead, pet, and I don’t like to interrupt the proceedings to search for protection. Besides, like everything else made by man, they have been known to break. If I rip one putting it on, I want to have a spare ready."

"Boy Scout."

"Some of the best years of my life, darling." He started to strip. Scribe rolled on her side for a better view. When he got to his pants she cupped her hands around her eyes, miming binoculars. He laughed. "Thank goodness you aren’t acting like you’re using a microscope."

The last of the clothes dropped to the floor, and he slid into bed with her. He took her in his arms and nuzzled against her neck. "Mm. So nice and warm. I’ve always called the shots before, but if there’s anything you want, precious, tell me, all right?" He nipped her shoulder lightly. "I want you to have everything your lusty little heart desires."

"Well..."

He looked up quickly, smiling. "Sooo... She does have a secret fantasy, does she? Tell."

"Um... You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I mean, from what I’ve heard from some of my friends, most guys don’t, and I wouldn’t want you to do it if you didn’t want to do it, so..."

Clive laid a finger against her lips. "Darling, are you asking me to eat you?"

"Uh..."

"Oh, my Goc! She’s blushing! I love it. Of course I will, pet. I intended to, anyway. We haven’t tried that yet, and I think you’ll love it."

"I thought that when it came to this most guys did a reverse on the ‘It is better to give than to receive’ philosophy."

"I can’t account for the short-sightedness of the rest of my sex, pet. Besides, I told you how much I love your hair." He kissed his way down. Her nipples were already hard, but he spent some time there. He licked each one several times, swirling his tongue around the peaks, then drew each bud into his mouth and sucked it. Just when Scribe thought that it couldn’t possibly feel any better, he started nibbling. She was squirming by then. The sharp little nips shot bolts of pure pleasure through her body.

Finally he moved down in the bed. She spread her legs quickly, throwing them wide, and he lay down in the vee, his head hovering near her crotch. "Precious? This is going to be a little intense. I’m going to make sure you’re properly lubricated and stretched before I fuck you. If we’re both patient, there should be very little actual pain. By now, you may not even still have the hymen, and then it will only be your internal muscles stretching for the first time."

"Clive, aren’t there other things you can be doing with that tongue?"

He chuckled. "Yes, as a matter of fact, there are quite a few things." He bent his head.

Scribe grabbed at the sheets as she felt the first hot, damp touch on her most private flesh. Her heels dug into the mattress in an effort to restrain herself from locking her legs around Clive’s head.

Clive combed aside the dark brown curls, gazing admiringly at the intricate folds and creases. Ah, the human body, in all it’s infinite variety. And it was so much more enticing when it encased the being of someone you cared for.

He pressed on either side of her genitals, gently spreading the crease, till he saw the clitoris. "Target sighted, precious. Hang on." He licked it firmly. Scribe gasped and pushed up with her pelvis. "Oh, yes, that’s the spot!" He gave the little pink button the same loving attention he’d lavished on her nipples. When he drew it between his lips and started to suckle, she tried to snap her legs closed. Clive, veteran that he was, knew this was coming and hooked his arms around her thighs, holding her firmly.

When it was swollen hard, he gave it a last tender nibble and moved farther down. The lips of her sex were thickly smeared with the clear lubrication that her body was instinctively producing. He spent some time lapping it away, savoring the unique flavor of his lover, then he slipped the tip of his tongue between the soft, clinging lips.

Scribe groaned and lifted her hips, but he pushed her back down, holding her still. He licked again, sliding his tongue a fraction deeper. Clive kept doing this till he was thrusting his tongue in and out of the moist channel, and Scribe was whimpering steadily. He felt the muscles loosening, softening, and knew that she was almost ready.

Then the woman stiffened, clutching at his hair, and wailed softly. Clive felt the pulse as she rippled inside, and knew that she was climaxing. He continued to tongue fuck her as the waves of heat and tingling washed over her, then slowly died.

When he felt her relax, going limp, he pulled away, giving her still hard clitoris a last, sucking kiss. Her face was sweaty, glowing. She panted, "Oh, man. Now I know why the classic porn writers used to call it ‘the little death’."

Clive sat beside her, dampened one of the cloth, and used it to wipe her bodily juices from his face. "I liked it, too, dear. See?" He took her hand and drew it into his lap, curving her fingers around his erection.

Scribe stroked slowly. "Yes, I’d say this was proof positive. Um... Clive?"

He closed his eyes in pleasure as she rubbed pre-ejaculate fluid over his cock head. "Yes, love?"

"Are you sure you’re going to be able to fit all this in there? My gynecologist told me that I’m built kind of small, and you... Well, you’re not."

He kissed her again. "Don’t worry, pet. You’re well lubricated, and already relaxed. I’m going to open you a little more before I do it. It will be all right." He reached down, stroking the length of her crease, then slowly slipped one finger inside her. Her legs flexed a little, and her brow puckered, but she made no protest. "You see?" He moved his hand slowly, and the wrinkles on her forehead smoothed out. Her eyes drifted half shut.

Clive slipped in another finger and probed, steadily and gently, pushing to the limit in her warm core. "One more, darling, and you’ll be ready." He bunched a third finger with the others and pushed them into her slowly. "There, you see? It may ache a little at first, but you’ll be all right."

When he withdrew his fingers, she muttered in discontent. "Oh, just a minute, impatient. Neither one of us want me to go in bareback." He ripped open the condom and quickly rolled it on over

his rigid cock, then moved back between her legs. He positioned himself, fitting the latex clad tip of his prick against her slick slit, then paused. He stroked her face gently. "Well, Scribe, this is it."

"Bout time," she whispered.

"Be quiet, you sentimental thing, or I may cry." His eyes softened. "Truly, dear, I’m so glad you chose me. Some women shed their virginity as casually as they shed their shoes, but I know this means something to you, and it means something to me, too. Now, keep your eyes open, precious. Look at me." He pushed forward.

Scribe shuddered as she felt herself opened, the thick, hot mass of Clive’s sex sliding into her. He moved slowly, an inch at a time. Her pelvic exams had always been barely short of hellish, but this was so different. There was no pain, just a very faint ache that didn’t even make it uncomfortable, and the friction was so delicious that it was driving her crazy.

Then Clive stopped. "What? There’s more, I know there is. I saw it. Don’t hold out on me, Clive."

He laughed softly. "Greedy thing! I’ve stopped because there’s something stopping me. Pet, you are literally cherry. You still have your maidenhead."

"No shit? I thought that was long gone, all the bicycle riding I did when I was younger."

"Brace yourself, dearheart." He thrust hard, and slid the rest of the way into her, seating himself deeply.

Scribe felt a brief flare of pain, as if something had scraped her inside, but it was overidden by the sense of fullness. She groaned, and panted, "Oof, Clive! Oh, man! That’s all of you, isn’t it?"

"Yes, precious, that’s all. I can’t cram my balls in there, too."

"Just as well. I feel like I’m about to explode." She tilted her pelvis, and crooned. "Ooo, for more than one reason."

"Flatterer." He moved, drawing back an inch, then pushing forward "Still all right?"

"Purrrrr."

"Pet the kitty." Clive began to move, with short, gentle strokes. Scribe hooked her feet over the back of his legs. She let each thrust push her into the yielding mattress, then pushed up before he drew back, deepening the penetration.

Gradually he increased his pace and the length of his strokes. He had thought that he would have to restrain himself this first time, but Scribe met everything he gave her, and gave it back to him with sweet enthusiasm. Clive had learned long ago that each partner was unique, but this... This was truly special. He realized that he really was Scribe’s first--the first in all things, and the thought excited him even as it touched him.

Scribe clutched at Clive’s shoulders, arching to dig her head back into the pillow and lift her body to meet his. She’d enjoyed what she’d done with Clark/Superman, but this... The feel of Clive’s warm, solid body pressing her down, pressing into her, was unbelievable. To actually take part of him inside herself... She had never before been so close to being one with another person.

But she really didn't have time to contemplate the more esoteric aspects of the experience. She was too busy getting ready to blow apart at the seams.

Clive murmured, "Close, sweetheart? Hm? Me, too. Here..."

He grabbed her hips and stabbed into her with short, hard thrusts. Scribe gave a strangled cry and bucked against him. Clive felt her orgasm hit her, felt it in the way her body seemed to ripple around him, drawing him in even deeper, and it pulled him over the edge, too. He groaned as he came, filling the rubber with hot spunk. The come made him slide in the condom even more easily, and he indulged in a few more thrusts before he went soft, enjoying the slippery friction.

Scribe shuddered as waves of heat and chills passed over her. It felt like every nerve in her body was being warmed and caressed at once. She didn't pass out, but she thought that if any moment in her life had ever deserved a faint, this was it.

Clive was kissing his way along her jaw. When he got to her lips he gave her a long, liesurely soul kiss, sucking her tongue into his mouth to nibble on it. Finally he sighed and said, "Hello, Little Miss Experienced."

Scribe laughed and groaned at the same time. "How to go from Virgin to Slut in one easy step. Meet Clive."

"You say the sweetest things." He kissed her again. "Let's get cleaned up, then I'll get rid of our liner and we can have a nice nap."

"Works for me."

Clive pulled out of her carefully and reached down to peel off the condom. He was silent for a moment, then said, "Oh, dear."

Scribe stretched. "What? Did I bleed?"

"Um... a little."

"That's okay. It didn't really hurt, and I kind of like the idea of the traditional..."

"Scribe, precious, that's not why I said 'Oh, dear'. I suppose I should have said something a bit stronger, like 'Oh, shit!'"

"Why? I mean, I can't imagine anything that would make you do that, except..."

A horrible thought struck her. She sat up quickly. Clive was holding the stripped off condom. It hung limply, the end slightly bulged. He had his hand cupped under it. The horrifying thing was that there was a thick drip of white fluid plopping into his palm.

Scribe squeaked. "Clive! You... that..." She shook her head and said slowly, "That does not mean what I think it means."

"I'm afraid it does, precious. It broke." He threw it in a bedside wastebasket. "And I always buy the best quality! I'm outraged!"

"You're outraged? Jesus!!" She bent her knees, clamping her legs together and hugged them.

Clive said gently, "Pet, it's a little late for that." She put her head down on her knees. He sighed and stroked her hair. "It isn't funny, and I shouldn't joke about it. I'm sorry, love."

Her voice was muffled. "Not your fault, Clive. I know you--you were as careful as anyone could be. We are victims of faulty latex. I, for one, intend to sue. But in the meantime, I need to douche."

When there was silence, she peeked up at Clive. He raised an eyebrow. "Douche?"

She fell back on the bed. "No! I refuse to believe that this dimension has not yet invented douches."

"All right, darling, be in denial. Now, tell me what a douche is, and we'll see what we can do."

She sighed. "Do you know what an enema is?"

"Sweetie, I'm a bi-sexual Dom, heavily into B and D. What do you think?"

"Well, a douche is sort of like an enema for the female anatomy." Clive's eyes widened. "And please don't give me that 'My God, I never thought of that!' look. So, you have an enema bag?"

"At my playroom. Not here."

"Crap! And I can't just have you run to the drugstore for a bottle of Summer's Eve, either." She sat up, frowning in concentration. "Think, Scribe, think! You're a resourceful woman, your head is stuffed with information, both useful and trivial. They didn't always have commercial douches in your own world. What did people use to do?"

Suddenly her eyebrows flicked up. "You've thought of something," Clive said.

She frowned again. "Oo, no! Not that! Christ, it's so 1950s. And icky. And uncomfortable. Still, if you're desperate... and I am." She looked at him. "Clive, am I mistaken, or do you really like to drink your whiskey with that 7-Up clone, Limon?"

"Yes. I have some in the kitchen. Do you want a drink, dear? I can understand if..."

"Just bring me some of that Limon, huh?"

"If it will help." He padded naked into the kitchen. In a moment he returned and offered it to her.

"Thanks." She took it and drained half of it. "Now, can you bring me some still in the bottle, not in a glass?"

"But Scribe, it isn't chilled. It will be room temperature."

"Fantastic." Clive shrugged. A moment later he was handing her the greenish, narrow necked bottle. Scribe got up and walked toward the bathroom. "Do you have a shower or a bathtub?"

"Both."

"Hm. I think the tub would be best." She stepped into the bathroom.

Clive was bewildered when she put her thumb firmly over the mouth of the bottle and started to shake it vigorously. "Scribe! That's going to spew!"

"Good." She shut the door, and he heard the lock click.

Clive took a moment to process this. Then he banged on the door. "Scribe! You can't mean to..."

sssssssssss

"Yow! Damn, that tickles!"

"Oh, Scribe! I can't believe..."

"Damn good thing this wasn't chilled, Clive. I can just imagine you trying to explain it to the emergency crew."

"Sweety, for heaven's sake, open the door!"

"Not yet. I'm all right, Clive, but I think I should lay here a couple of minutes and let this stuff kind of... marinate. Then I'll shower and come back out. Just give me a little time, okay?"

Clive was worried, but she sounded all right, so he decided he had to trust her not to endanger herself. He cleaned himself up and cleared away the bed liner, basin, and other items. Then he sat on the bed, telling himself that he was not going to break down the door. Not unless she stayed in there more than another five minutes, anyway.

At last he heard the shower running, and relaxed. A little later Scribe, wrapped in a bath sheet, came out and silently sat on his lap again, laying her head on his shoulder. "Well, that was almost perfect."

"I'm sorry, darling, but..."

She kissed him. "Shut up. I already told you--it wasn't your fault. Hell, Clive, I was almost expecting something like this. I've just got to accept that shit happens to me."

"Really, dear, you shouldn't have such a negative outlook."

"Clive? I'm the woman who got snatched into an alternate reality by grabbing onto a nutty pixie. I'm the woman who managed to attract the attentions of what was probably the only predatory butch-lesbian Amazon in Metropolis, if not the known world. I'm the woman who then got herself kidnapped by a sociopathic evil genius. A little split condom isn't all that much. I can handle it," she hugged him. "Even if I'd known it was going to happen, I'd have done it anyway. You're worth a sticky soda-water wash, hon." She sighed, "But that sucker did tickle."

Clive smiled, looking thoughtful. "You know, that's an interesting idea. If one were to use plain club soda instead, and introduce it a bit more gently through the traditional form of the enema bag..."

"Clive..."

"My future submissives will either thank or curse you, my dear."

Chapter Fifty-one: Come Fly With Me, or Wearing Clive

"Sweetheart, are you sure you don't want to go see the doctor?"

"Clive, I hate to tell you this, but I get the feeling that if your dimension hasn't even developed douche technology their other birth prevention methods won't be all that effective. Besides, I've had enough of sterile atmospheres for awhile."

"Suit yourself, precious. You usually do."

They were in the kitchen. Clive slid a puffy omlette onto a plate, then set it before her. "Damn, Clive. How many eggs did you use?"

"Three." He started ticking off on his fingers, "Also sharp cheddar, minced ham, chives, a touch of garlic..."

She cut into the omlette. "I hope you have a spare toothbrush. That is, if you plan on kissing me again any time soon."

"Sweetie, I have a case of little toothbrushes under the sink in the bathroom, all individually wrapped in plastic. I just hope you don't mind brushing with one that has a cartoon character on the handle. I got them from a dental supply house. You know, the dentists give them out to children as rewards for being brave during their appointments."

"Ah. I see that this dimension, too, caught wise to the 'here's a lollipop' scam. But you already loaded me up with toast and bacon. How do you expect me to eat all of this?"

"Can't you eat it all?"

"Of course I can--I'm just wondering how you came to expect it."

"I've watched you eat, dear. Besides, I figured you might have worked up an appetite, and I want to be sure you keep your energy up."

"Clark talked, didn't he?"

Clive smiled. "We had a little chat before I brought you home. He can turn the most delicious shade of pink, and did you know that he's ticklish?"

"Evil, evil man."

"Present."

Scribe lifted a forkful of omelette to her mouth, leaving a golden string of melted cheese stretching back to her plate. "Crap," she mumbled, her speech muted by the eggs. "Now I gotta do the spaghetti thing with it. I hate slurping--it leaves grease on my chin."

"Then wait." Clive reached out, finger extended, and quickly wrapped the cheese strand around his finger. He pulled briskly and the strand snapped. Then he popped it into his own mouth and sucked it off with great relish, giving her a significant look.

"You are sooo, dirty. But in such a nice way."

"Thank you, pet. Now, then--if you aren't going to the doctor, what do you have planned for today? I can leave the store alone for a bit--I have the staff properly trained and terrified to be able to trust them."

"I want to check in with Superman. He's looking into that technology Luthor had whipped up. There's a chance that it may help me get home."

Clive poured a cup of coffee, then sat beside her. "I'm of two minds about that. Of course I want you to be happy, pet, and I know how you're pining for your mama, but I'm going to miss you awfully when you go."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Thanks, Clive. That's been one of the ambitions of my life: to get to the point where I'd leave a hole in the life of someone other than blood relations if anything happened to me."

He squeezed her thigh. "You will, precious. If he does have something, would you consider waiting a bit longer till we can be sure that there's a way for you to back-and-forth?"

"Well..." his hand slid higher. "Well..." It slid higher, and rubbed. "I might very well be persuaded."

"Lovely. Now, how will you get in touch with the Divine Man in Blue?"

"Clark knows how to reach him. I'll just give him a call." She polished off her breakfast, then dialed Clark's home number. "He has today off, I think. Oh, hello? Clark, it's me. I'm fine." She arched an eyebrow at Clive. "A little sore, perhaps, but definitely fine." She paused, covered the mouthpiece and whispered, "Is it possible to hear someone blush over the phone?" She spoke into the receiver again. "Anyway, I was wondering if you could get a message to Superman for me? Yes?" She spoke to Clive again. "He says he's pretty sure he can. I'd like to talk to him about that dimensional travel machinery he got from Luthor's research team. Mhm. Oh, he's hopeful? Wonderful! Yes, I suppose it would be more practical for him to take me to the Fortress of Solitude to check it out."

Clive started waving his arms frantically. Scribe gave him an innocent, questioning look. Clive pointed at himself. She blinked. He grabbed her sleeve, shook her, and pointed to himself again, mouthing 'You'd better!' "Say, Clark, do you think that Superman would mind if I brought a friend along? No, not Lois. No, not Jimmy, either. Yes, you know him--Clive. Yes, that Clive. Good lord, are there any others?" Clive blew on his nails and polished them on his shirt. Scribe mouthed 'vain'. "Yes, I'm positive he'd like to go. Okay. Thanks, sweetie." She hung up. "He says about ten minutes."

Clive shrieked and ran for the bathroom. "Good God, darling, warn a person! Thank heavens I showered this morning. Where did I put the blow drier? No time for a manicure, I suppose."

She was tempted to watch, but decided that it might be safer to stay out of Clive's way when he went into a primping frenzy. She went and sat in the livingroom, playing with Tietlebaum. He came back in about nine-and-a-half minutes, completely changed and spiffed up. "How do I look, pet?"

"Do you own an Evinrude?"

"A...?"

"Outboard motor. I figured if you were going to go fishing for compliments, you should be fully equipped. You're gorgeous, and you know it. You'd be gorgeous if you were run over ten miles of bad road, then wrapped in a polyester suit and sprayed with a pound of Aquanet."

"Flatterer." There was a knock. He blinked. "Scribe, that wasn't the front door."

"This is Superman we're talking about, Clive." He followed her into the bedroom. Superman was standing out on the balcony, peering through the panes of the French door. She opened them.

He stepped in. "Good morning, Scribe." He nodded at Clive. "Clive. I hope you don't mind my choise of entrances."

Clive smiled smoothly. "You can enter any way you want to, handsome."

Scribe blinked at him. "Clive, I thought you didn't..."

"Even I am willing to make exceptions occasionally, Scribe, and he is exceptional. Now, how is this transportation going to be arranged?"

Superman thought. "Well, if it was to anywhere but the Fortress I could do you both at the same time."

Clive gave Scribe a sultry look. "Do you hear that, darling? He could do us both at the same time."

Superman flushed. Clive salivated. "But when I carry a visitor to the Fortress, I usually wrap them in my cape for warmth, and it isn't big enough for both of you."

"Oh, I bet it is big enough for both of us," Clive purred. The flush deepened.

"So I think that the best thing would be for me to take you over one at a time. It won't take but a minute or two between trips."

"Sounds fair enough to me," Scribe stated.

"Ladies first," Clive said. "You go ahead, precious." He whispered in her ear. "I want another shot of breath freshener."

"All right, Scribe. Come on out on the balcony." They did. "Put your arms around my neck and hang on tight." She did. He wrapped the cape around her snuggly. "You don't get airsick, do you?"

"I wouldn't know--the closest I've ever come to flying was the skyride at Astroworld."

"It might be better if you keep your eyes shut, then."

"Oh, all right." She closed her eyes.

He tucked a fold of the cape over her head. "This will keep you from getting windburn." The ground suddenly disappeared from under her feet, and wind whipped and roared around her.

Damn, I'm glad I don't wear dresses. This would be awful breezy. She didn't try to talk to him, working on the theory that pilots and drivers should not be distracted. After a few rather disorienting minutes she felt Superman's double-armed grip shift to a single armed grip. "Hey!"

"Stay calm. I have to get the key to open the Fortress." There was a stupendous grinding and clanking noise, more wind, and she was set down gently on solid ground. Superman unwrapped her, and she blinked in the bright light.

"Good Gravy." She stared around. "I haven't felt like this since I was about seven and they took me to the Astrodome for the first time."

"Thank you. I think the entry hall turned out well. Now, I'm off to get your friend Clive. Please don't wander off and start playing with things."

"Don't worry. I'll cop to testing wet paint once or twice, but I'm not one of those people who see a sign over a button saying 'Do Not Push' and lunge for it. Tell me something, Kal, how good are you at flying while distracted?"

"I haven't crashed or lost a passenger yet. Why?"

"Kal, you're going to have Clive hanging around your neck."

"Scribe, he can't be all that much heavier than you, so that won't be a problem."

"That's not what I mean."

"Is he a nervous flier? Am I going to have to calm him down."

She smiled. "If he reacts the way I think he's going to react, there's no way you're going to be able to calm him down."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Y-o-u'll find o-u-t." She shooed him. "Go on. Leave him alone too long and he'll start changing outfits. That door leads into the fortress proper?" He nodded. "I'll just hike on over and sit in that..." she squited, "Yes, that's a chair. I'll park it and wait for you."

*

Superman dropped lightly onto the balcony of Clive's apartment. The French doors were still open, and he could see into the bedroom. He blinked. When they'd left the room had been scrupulously neat--now it looked like a tornado had hit a clothing store--one that specialized in leatherwear.

Clive, shirtless, was buttoning up a pair of black leather pants that seemed to have been tattooed on. He smiled at Superman and said, "Just a minute, precious. Almost done." He seemed to take an inordinately long time doing up the last three buttons on the button-fly.

Superman caught a glimpse of a few wisps of curly, brown-blonde hair, and a thin line of the same leading up to a firm abdomen. For some reason, his mouth got dry.

Clive finished with the buttons. "I hope you don't mind. It suddenly occured to me that I wasn't dressed appropriately for a visit to the Arctic."

"You don't need to worry about that. You'll be wrapped in my cape on the way up, and it give excellent insulation. That combined with our shared body heat will keep you warm until we get into the Fortress, and that's well heated."

"Oh, I'm a great believer in shared body heat. Well, then, I needn't bother with my flannel shirts." He smoothed on a black T-shirt that was even tighter than the pants, then walked over. "I do hope that cape is efficient. Look." He pointed at his chest. Kal-el looked. There were two hard, sharp peaks pressing against the thin, soft fabric. "Nature's thermometers."

Kal-el tried to think of something appropriate to say, but he really didn't have much experience in discussing nipples. "Scribe said you'd probably change clothes."

"Did she? She's a perceptive little thing." I'm surprised she didn't tell you I'd be waiting naked. I did consider it. "Well, are we ready to go?"

"Yes. I don't want to leave her up there alone for too long."

"Very wise, dear. She isn't exactly... um... a placid sort of person. Okay, if I remember correctly," he slid his arms around Superman's neck, "this is how it's done." Superman started to blush. "Mm. But I want to be certain that I don't fall, so I'd better get a l-i-t-t-l-e closer."

His arms tightened. Superman found a firm, muscular body pressed against him from chest to knee. He swallowed hard. This was a unique experience. The only time he came into close bodily contact was when he was fighting villians, and it didn't often get around to wrestling. A quick tap on the jaw was usually enough to put them out of commission. Clive was looking up at him. I didn't realize brown eyes could be so bright.

He's staring! Clive thought gleefully. Experience is nice, but I do so love virgins.

Kal-el wrapped the cape around Clive and put his arms around the other man's body. "Are you ready?"

"Almost. I need a little better anchorage." He hopped, and Kal-el suddenly found Clive's legs wrapped around his hips, the other man's crotch pressing firmly against his belly. "Okay. Feel free to lift off." Superman just stood there. Clive peeked up at him. He smiled at the bemused expression. "C'mon, precious. Scribe is waiting."

"Oh. Right. Hang on."

"Just try and shake me off."

*

Scribe felt the blast of cold air clear across the entry hall, and looked up from the issue of Kandorian Nightlife she'd found on a table beside the chair. If she stayed here long enough, she'd have to persuade Kal-el to take her on a club crawl in the bottled city.

The big door swung shut behind Superman as he flew over and landed lightly before her. She cocked her head. "What's wrong with this picture?"

A pair of engineer boots and leather-clad legs dropped down, and the cape unfurled to display Clive plastered against a furiously blushing Superman. Clive tipped his head back to give her a pleased smile. "Absolutely nothing, pet." He released his grip on Superman's neck, letting his hands slide down his shoulders to his chest. "Mmm. Much nicer than flying coach. I didn't even miss the little bag of peanuts and the teeny bottles of booze."

"Clive, turn loose of the big, pretty man."

"Why?"

"Because I want him to show me what progress has been made on getting me home before you get him so distracted that he forgets how to speak English."

Clive sighed. "Yes, of course. Practicality before passion. Friendship before fu..." She clapped a hand over his mouth. Clive gently removed it, saying, "Do you have any idea what I'd usually do to someone who presumed to do that?"

"Do you really want him to go into shock?" She whispered in his ear. "I thought you preferred 'em awake and wiggling."

He gave her a kiss. "Forgiven." He noticed Superman's puzzled look and whispered back, "Good God, darling. Not only has he missed the clue bus, he doesn't even know where the trolley line runs, does he?"

She patted his shoulder. "I have confidence in you as a conductor." She raised her voice to address Superman. "So, it's in a lab?"

"Yes. If you'll follow me..."

As Scribe and Clive walked after him, deeper into the fortress, Clive whispered, "I would follow that ass anywhere. What is that costume made out of? Jersey? Spandex? I wonder if he could get me some in black? And I don't see any buttons or zippers. How the hell does he get into it?"

"That, my dear Clive is called the Star Trek Uniform Syndrome, also known as No Visible Fastenings. It is one of the Great Mysteries of the Universe. Please note that I speak in capitals. It's right up there with How Did James T. Kirk Manage to Avoid Getting Some Sort of Weird STD Given That He Seemed Willing to Hump Anything That Seemed Remotely Likely to Have XX Chromosomes."

"Here we are."

As Kal-el stood back to let them enter, Scribe noted the shy smile he gave Clive. She also noted that the material of his costume wasn't any better at concealing erections than earthly fabric. Again she whispered to the hairdresser, "And who knows? I think you may have the chance to solve that first great mystery, or at least you'll probably figure out how he gets out of it."

Chapter Fifty-two: Secrets of the Big, Blue Uniform

There were several piles of machinery in the room, and Scribe got busy investigating each of them. "So, what am I looking at?"

Superman followed behind her, his voice a little anxious. "Scribe, don't touch..."

"Oh, please, I have better sense than to start pushing buttons." She looked closer at the machine she was currently examining. "Especially when they're labelled in something that looks like Kryptonian. Or is that Kryptonish? Kryptonese? Anyway, it's all Greek to me." Clive opened his mouth, and she said quickly, "Don't say it, Clive."

"That's the Phantom Zone ray machine," Superman said.

"Eep! Lemme away from that. I have no desire to bring General Zod back, no matter how sexy Terrence Stamp is."

"Now wait a minute, precious," said Clive.

"Sexy, but he could give Luthor a run for his money in the megalomaniacal sociopath competition, plus he'd have superpowers."

"Oh, pooh. Never mind, then."

Superman indicated another machine--one that was connected to a glass booth about the size of a small shower stall. "This is what Luthor's research department was working on."

They all gathered around it. Superman flipped some switches and turned some dials. A small screen flickered into life. "This is an interdimensional viewer. You turn this dial to focus on different dimensions until you find the one you want."

Scribe watched as people who looked human, aside from their orange skin, walked along a fairly normal looking street. "How many dimensions are there?"

He sighed gustily. "Apparently an infinite number. That read-out there assigns a number to each one you view, but the dial never reaches a stop--it just keeps turning. That will be the most difficult part of this venture--locating your home dimension."

"Crap. Sounds worse than trying to pick numbers for the lottery, and I'd probably have more luck winning that."

"Well, the good point is that we can take items from the other dimensions, so if you land in the wrong one we can just haul you back and try again."

"How comforting. Can you send yet?"

"Soon. There's only a little readjusting that needs to be done. I thought that you could spend some time reviewing possible destinations, noting down their location, before we tried. That way we'd be ready to try the next one immediately if the first one wasn't right."

"Sounds good to me." She pulled a chair in front of the console and dragged over a pad of paper and a pencil. "This looks interesting, anyway. Why don't you go show Clive around the fortress for awhile and let me get started on a list?"

Superman looked at Clive. Clive smiled. "Um, are you sure you don't need..."

She waved at him as she clicked the dial over one notch. "Get out of here. I can have my tour later." She squinted at the screen. "Tails? Don't think so." click

"C'mon, pet. I hear you have trophies?" Clive urged Superman toward the door.

"Yes."

"Lions and tigers and bears?"

Scribe's voice floated to him. "In-freaking-credible. No douches, but they have The Wizard of Oz."

"No, I don't believe in big game hunting. There's a mastodon head, but I couldn't help that one. It was about to step on someone, and I had to stop it."

"Justifiable mammothcide?"

"No, I didn't kill it, exactly. It had a heart attack."

Clive laughed. "Lord, I love it. I bet you capture spiders and release them outside instead of stepping on them."

"They'd freeze up here. I put them in a box till I can transport them back to Metropolis." He led Clive to the trophy room and they spent a pleasant hour touring.

"Good lord, a solid gold hula hoop," Clive marvelled.

"No, that's a ring belonging to one of the Brobidaggians of Telemaxus II."

"A finger ring?"

"What other types of rings are there?"

Clive smiled seductively, "You'd be surprised. Why don't you come over here behind this display and I'll tell you about it?"

"Why do we need to go behind the display?"

"Well, we don't really have to, if you're not shy. First off, I need to ask you a question."

"Okay."

"How do you get in and out of that suit? I don't see any openings."

"Scribe asked me that, too. It stretches."

"So you just pull it on like a bodysuit, hm? Okay, then what do you do when you need to go to the bathroom?"

"Actually, I can hold it for a long time."

Clive squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "Oh, the interpretations one could put on that statement, but I suppose you mean your bladder."

"Um, yes. Anyway, when I need to use the facilities, there's a way."

"Yes?"

Superman cleared his throat. "The trunks."

"The red part?" Clive looked at his costume closely. "Wait a moment." His face lighted with delight and discovery. He reached out and ran a finger across Superman's abdomen, just along the line where red met blue. Superman shivered. "Why, it isn't one piece! Those are trunks, not part of the overall suit."

"Yes."

"Do you mean to tell me that you have a cutout under there?"

"Yes." Clive hooked his fingers under the waistband. "Hey!"

"Just want to check, darling." Clive tugged down, and Superman grabbed at the fabric to keep it from slipping. Neither were entirely successful. A rim of skin appeared between the blue and red. "Oh, come on." With his free hand, Clive massaged the front of Superman's trunks.

Superman regarded him with shocked eyes. "Clive, I thought you and Scribe..." he trailed off.

"We did, and very nice it was. But you're nice, too."

"But I'm a man, Clive."

"I n-o-t-i-c-e-d." He rubbed again, and the other man moaned. "Sweetie, don't tell me that you don't know about bi-sexuality? You're supposed to be from a more advanced society."

"But I was raised in a mid-west small town."

"Well, you've moved on to the big city physically, doll, so why not sexually?" Clive rubbed again, and Superman closed his eyes. "Tha-at's right. Nice, hm?" He gently pried Superman's fingers loose, one at a time. And even if he doesn't come right out and admit it, he's not adverse, because otherwise I damn sure wouldn't be able to make him let loose.

Clive pulled, and the red trunks slid down smoothly. There was indeed a cut out, front and back, to allow nature to take its course. "Darling, who made that?"

He was blushing. "My mother."

"Could she make me one just like it in vinyle? I'd be such a hit at the next Dom's Ball. The design is just marvelous--uncovers the essential bits." He skimmed a finger along the edge of Superman's pubic area. "What have we here?"

"Um... it's..."

"I know what it is, pet. That was more of a rhetorical question than anything. Now, I don't always ask, but in this case I will. If I touch, will you punch my head off?"

He stared at Clive. Finally, very slowly, he said, "No."

"Ah, I thought not." He slid his arms around Superman's neck. "I detected a bit of interest on the way up here." He pressed against Superman, pushing his leather clad crotch against the other man's bare one as he gave Superman his first male/male kiss.

Superman stayed very still. It was a kiss, all right, but it was a lot different from any he'd experienced with a woman. For one thing, he'd usually been the agressor, and now he was on the receiving end. And 'receiving' was a very appropriate term. Clive believed in invasive kissing. Superman had parted his lips when the other man's mouth touched his (and he was a little astonished with himself about how quickly that had happened), and Clive wasted no time in making a thorough exploration.

Well, this is novel, Superman thought. And pretty damn interesting. I wonder what would happen if I...Wow! I wonder what would happen if I sucked on his tongue? He tried it.

A second later he found himself on the floor with Clive on top of him. Clive pulled up for a moment. "The floor isn't too cold for you, is it, cutie?"

Superman gasped, "My cape is under me."

"Good. I really don't have the patience to go looking for a padded surface right now." He sat back till he was kneeling astraddle Superman's thighs. "Now, I said I'd explain about different types of rings. There's the finger ring, of course. Then there's the brass ring, which I think I just grabbed." He started ticking off on his fingers. "Ring of roses, ring of conspirators, ring of truth, nipple rings, and my favorite," He reached down and, using thumbs and forefingers, sircled the base of Superman's rapidly hardening cock, squeezing firmly, "the cock ring--a handly little device that constricts blood and seminal flow, thus allowing the wearer to keep a hard-on for just ages and ages."

"You... you wouldn't happen to have one of those with you? I mean, I'm interested in a purely scientific way."

"Of course, lamb." Clive stroked up, slowly and firmly, and Superman moaned. "Not with me, I'm afraid. I mean, there's simply no pocket room in these pants. I didn't bring any lubricant for the same reason, so that limits our options a bit. That's okay, anyway, because I'm not yet entirely comfortable with the idea about putting my dick anywhere there's even the remotest possibility it might be squeezed off."

"It doesn't work that way."

"Glad to hear it--I'll start making plans for later." He started unbuttoning his fly. "Till then I'm sure we can come to a satisfactory arrangement."

"Look, I haven't..."

"I know, but I bet you're a quick study." He spread his fly open, pulling out his erection. "Let's start this out by making introductions. Here's where you find out that 'press the flesh' doesn't HAVE to refer to shaking hands." He lay back down on top of Superman and began to hump.

Superman's encounter with Scribe had been a while back, there had been nothing in between, and Clive... Well, Clive was damn near irresistable when he put his mind (and other parts of his body) to it. Superman found himself humping up to meet Clive's thrusts, their arousals sliding together with a friction that threatened to drive him out of his mind. He grabbed Clive's ass and pulled him against his body hard...

...and Clive stopped moving. He said gently, "Let's get something straight, if you'll pardon the expression. I'm a Dom, Supe. That means that I call the shots. Now, if you're very good I might consent to let you sort of top sometime in the future, but if you try to get Dommish on me right now, rest assured that even if you are invulnerable I will find a way to make you sorry." He reached between them and stroked the other man's cock. "Be nice and I'll make you glad you were."

Superman studied him. "Okay."

"Good boy. Reward time." Clive bent and licked the other man's glans, then took it into his mouth and sucked.

Superman's head fell back. "Oh, wow. I save a planet and get a silver plaque. I agree not to be pushy and get this. Someone, somewhere, has their priorities seriously screwed up."

Clive almost choked. He pulled back and said, "You're right, dear, but if you make me laugh, we won't get anywhere with this." He settled back to what he had been doing.

Superman threw his arms out to the side, grabbing at the floor as Clive deep throated him. Clive continued, using his tongue lavishly on each back stroke. When he heard a noise other than gasps and grunts he pulled off to look. "Precious, you seem to have clawed chunks out of the floor."

Superman looked. "Only the tiles. I haven't reached the steel plate base, so the cold shouldn't seep up from the permafrost."

"Mm. You just be careful what you do with those hands, sweetcheeks. Now, turnabout is fair play." Clive shifted. In a twinkle he was straddling Superman's head, with his own head hovering over the other man's crotch.

"Wait a minute!" Superman's voice wasn't quite panicked.

"Don't get difficult, dear. Just pretend it's Christmas, and remember that it is better to give than to receive." Superman thought about it a moment, then reached up and tentatively ran his fingers along Clive's length. Clive quivered. Little Clive quivered. "Not a bad start, but you don't get any more until I get some."

That got a reaction. Superman closed his eye, pulled Clive closer, and licked. His tongue brushed over warm, soft skin, and he felt hair tickle his chin. There was a pleased sound from Clive. He did it again, and this time he encountered a slick, slightly bitter fluid. Actually the taste was kind of intrigueing, so he went hunting for more of it.

Clive breathed, "Oh, precious, you are going to do all right."

Superman's prick was once again enveloped in wet heat, and that spurred him on to greater efforts. He prided himself on being able to learn to do almost anything--why should this be any different? Remembering what Clive had done, he located the fleshy knob at the end of the other man's penis and drew it between his lips. He was a little surprised when Clive thrust shallowly into his mouth, but since he was doing the same thing to the hairdresser right then he could hardly complain. Actually, when he thought about it, he felt no inclination to complain.

Clive stopped for a moment. "Sweetums? Look, it isn't that I don't like you, but let me know before you're ready to come so I can pull off." Superman let go of Clive's cock for a moment and started to speak. "Yes, I know you said that it doesn't work that way, but I'd rather have a trial period first, and besides, if your partner asks you not to come in his mouth, it's only polite." He squeezed Superman's thighs. "Understand?"

"Yes, Clive."

"On the other hand, if you'd like to try it, and you're positive your jaws aren't going to lock..."

"Don't worry about it."

Clive sighed, "God, sometimes I almost wish I wasn't so horny." He eyed the thick hard-on, spit slick, wavering before him. "Then I say, 'What the hell'." He swooped down again. Superman resumed also. It was amazing how much even small sounds like slurping could echo inside a hollowed out arctic ice mountain.

Soon Superman clutched at the back of Clive's legs, making a muffled sound. Clive let his cock slide out of his mouth, "Don't talk with your mouth full, precious. I get the message." He spat in his hands, gripped Superman's cock, and masturbated him, quickly and firmly. The muscular body below him jerked as the superhero came, and Clive caught a burst of warm sperm across his cheek. He continued milking, and was rewarded with two more less emphatic spurts.

He could feel his own orgasm building up, about to burst over the edge, and said, "Sweetie, if you don't want a throat wash you'd better pull off now." Superman's response was to grip him a little tighter and try to cram the rest of Clive's cock down his throat. He couldn't quite make it, but the effect was still very gratifying. Clive braced himself and came, purring with pleasure as his lover swallowed industriously.

When they were both finished they lay there, Clive with his head pillowed on Superman's thighs. He kissed the now soft dick and moved off him. "That was scrumptious, pet. And I didn't have to worry about your squirt putting my eye out any more than I have with any of my other lovers, so I think that we can consider getting w-a-y closer sometime in the future. Ever had anything up your bum besides a proctologists finger?"

Superman didn't think he'd be able to blush anymore after that little scene, but he found that he was wrong. "Actually, I've never had that." He shrugged. "Physical exams would be a threat to my secret identity." He stood up and reached for his trunks, which had somehow ended up hanging from the handle of a gold cup he'd been awarded for some civic service.

"Really?" Clive patted the firm buttocks that were so nicely framed by the back cutout of the costume. "Nothing? Ooo, you poor, deprived thing! If Scribe wasn't waiting for us I'd remedy that. I just can't wait to introduce you to your prostate. I think I'm going to have to sink your feet in cement, just to be sure you don't kick me into the next county the first time I massage it."

Superman reached into a hidden pocket in his cape and pulled out a handkerchief. Clive arched an eyebrow. Superman shrugged. "My Mom would still skin me if I went out without a clean handkerchief." He looked sheepish. "She doesn't know about the no underwear under the uniform. You... uh..." He gestured at Clive's face.

"Oh, yes." He held out his hand, but Superman put one hand on his shoulder and gently wiped his cheek clean. Clive smiled. "Thank you, pet. Now hand it over." Superman did, and Clive gently wiped the other man's cock clean. "Now, you won't stick to your clothes. Step in, and we'll go find Scribe. If I know her, she's about ready for lunch."

They started for the room where they'd left her. "I can fly us anywhere you like for lunch. There's a nice bistro in Paris that does good boulliabase."

"Can't get enough of French, eh? God, you turn the loveliest shade of pink."

Scribe looked up from the screen. The pad before her was filled with columns of numbers, and she looked a little dispirited, but she smiled when she saw them. "Hi. Have a nice tour?"

"We both learned new things," Clive said. "How are you doing, dearest?"

She sighed. "Just 'cause we find a way of jumping dimensions doesn't necessarily mean I'll know which way to jump. Oh, well, I guess it's progress."

Superman turned off the machine. "That's enough for now."

Clive nodded agreement. "You need a rest, Scribe. Superman is going to fly us to Paris for boulliabase."

Superman smiled at Clive. "You can call me Kal-el."

Scribe giggled, and started to sing, "Getting to kn-o-ow you, getting to know a-all about y-ou..."

Chapter Fifty-three: Possibilities

When last we left our heroine, Superman had shown her the Interdimensional Viewing Device. After a nice lunch in Paris (where Clive had an interesting encounter in a public pissor), she returned to the Fortress of Solitude and she has begun cruising 'round the dial in hopes of locating her home dimension, making a list of posible destinations.

(click)

"Ooo, Adolph Hitler won. Nas-tee!"

(click)

"Whoops! Flying cars. Mid-air collisions. Who thought that was a good idea?"

(click)

"Strippers on television. Could be, if that was the Jerry Springer show, but not on Sunrise Sermonette." (pause) "I think I'll take note of that one. It might make an interesting vacation spot." (scribble)

(click)

"Hm. Bloated ankles, swollen belly, pint of Ben and Jerry's in one hand and a jar of dill pickles in the other. Crap, that guy is pregnant! Damn, I wish that was my home dimension. I wonder if I could get a guy knocked up?" (pause) (scribble)

(click)

"Gasp! Martha Stewart, you should be ashamed of yourself! Ouch! Talk about finding new uses for a hot glue gun. And the scary thing is, I have to mark this down as a possibility." (scribble)

(click)

"Oh, look. Dishonest politicians. How novel. That one gets listed." (scribble)

(click)

"Madame President?" *sigh*

(click) "A talking dog? That is so..." (click) "Wait a minute." (back click) "It's a Taco Bell commercial." (scribble) "Put a star by that one."

(click)

"Oh. hell-o. I really shouldn't be watching this, but, um, they do do that back home. At least the letters to Penthouse say that they do. I guess I should write this one down. (scribble) Wha...? DAMN" (click) *erp urk* *gasp* (SCRATCHSCRATCHSCRATCHERASEERASEERASE) "Shit, I guess black widow spiders evolved as the dominant species on that world, even if they did look human."

"Lessee. Lord, look at all the Gloria Vanderbilt and Calvin Klein jeans! If that's my home world, it's the eighties version, so..."

(click) (blink) "I didn't turn that knob. What...?" (slam) (look) "Oh, hey, Clive!"

(peck) "Hello, pet. Any luck?"

"I have no earthly idea. I've found a few that look promising, but there could be some hidden, minor differences that make major differences."

"Such as?"

"Well, if they're breathing methane instead of oxygen, it could cramp my style a little."

"Hm. We'll mention that to Supes. There should be a way he can test such things before sending you along."

"Speaking of Big Blue, what have you two been up to the last couple of hours?" *innocent whistle* "Uh-huh. Thought so."

"Stop it." *sigh* "Things are progressing nicely. I'd love to squire him to Lavender's Green, but I can see where he'd have to keep such a relationship on the QT, what with his position."

"Yes, despite the tights, Superman needs to keep a butch reputation. The supervillains just wouldn't take him seriously."

"But you know, pet, sometimes that's an advantage. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it when some wooden-headed goon thinks that just because I shag asses I can't kick his. My dear, the looks on their faces!"

"You're a wicked man, Clive."

"Yes, aren't I?"

"I love that about you." (click) "Wow."

(blink) "Scribe, I haven't seen that much leather since the last time I looked in my own closet."

"Either that's an alternate universe, or I've stumbled over the Annual Castro Street Flaunt Your Fetish Day Parade."

(click)

"Wait just a minute, young lady. You write that down." (scribble) "Thank you."

(shift) "Clive, do you have any, er, necessities at your place?"

(stare) "What sort of necessities, precious? Condoms? Lubes? Caffiene?"

"Feminine necessities?"

"Chocolate?"

"You have chocolate? Good. No, you know, monthly feminite necessities."

"Cosmopolitan?" *snort* "I'm sorry, dear, I couldn't resist. I'm assuming you mean pads. You're usually a straightforward girl. Why on earth can't you call a rag a rag?"

"Blame my mother. Anyway, yes. I was kinda relieved to learn that they didn't have tampax here. Hate the boogers. 'You won't even know they're there'. HAH!"

"Well, pet, you were a virgin, after all. That might make a difference."

"Hm. I always thought that was a myth. Anyway, having to go back to dealing with a belt was bad enough."

"Another reason why I daily thank heaven that I was born male."

"Yep. The drawbacks of the female state can be summed up in three words: menstruation, menopause, and childbirth."

"Well, anyway, if you need the necessities, that must mean that you no longer have to worry about the problem."

"Not necessarily."

"You mean you're not...?"

"It was due today. Though come to think of it, it might be more effective not to have any. That ususally seems to bring it on. Maybe I should go to Lavender's Green tonight and get smashed."

"Dear, if you are 'that way' it would be bad for you."

"Yeah, but if I'm not, and my friend does visit I might as well have a real reason for the bloating, nausea, and aching head."

"No."

"Awe, you're no fun." (stare) "Okay, you are fun, but you're pissing me off here, Clive. Even my mother doesn't try to order me around that much."

"Your mother hasn't possibly fathered a child by you."

"True."

"Why don't you have your feet up when there's a perfectly good stool over here?" (drag)

"Clive..."

(lift, settle) "And you've got to start eating more greens. I want at least four helpings of rabbit food in you each day."

"Clive..."

"And you're going to start drinking more water. Eight glasses a day."

"Jesus, if I am pregnant, my bladder is due to be squashed, and that kind of fluid intake could..."

"No arguements. And you're taking a walk each day. I'm sure Superman could whip up a nice indoor track up here so you could do it around your machine diddling schedule."

"Clive!"

"Yes, pet?"

*sigh* "If I am knocked, you're going to be a Pregnancy Nazi, aren't you?"

"Yes, pet."

'This could present problems, you know. If I show up at home with a bun in the oven, Mom will be overjoyed, but she will find a way back here, and she'll bring handcuffs."

"I like her already."

"Not for fun and games. She'll also bring a shotgun, and possibly a lawyer. Seriously, Clive, how would you feel about it?"

"Thrilled beyond belief, but unless they found a way for back-and-forthing, you wouldn't be going anywhere. You do know that, don't you?"

(smile) "I'd be disappointed if you didn't feel that way. Still, nothing is yet known, so..."

(click)

"What does that headline say, Clive?"

(peer) "It says 'Hot, Hunky, and Hung' is New York Times Best Seller of Decade."

Chapter Fifty-four: A Stroll Through Diverse Dimensions, Complete with Plugs for Favorite Authors and a Personal Lust Object

"Superman, dear boy, you are absolutely positive that you can retrieve my lamb if it turns out that it isn't where she wants to go?" Clive's voice was level, but there was a 'no-bullshit-allowed-on-pain-of-severe-punishment' look in his eyes.

Superman took that look very seriously. "I've tried it a couple of times with myself as a guinne pig, Clive. I had the machine locked onto my DNA pattern and on a timer to pull me back in five minutes." He blushed. "It's a good thing, too. I had it set to put me down in what I thought was a perfectly innocent, empty office. I had no way of knowing that the occupants were about to come back from a coffee break, and that it was a talent agency that specialized in supplying actors for *harumph* adult films."

Scribe grinned. "Before it zapped him back they were offering him a three picture deal with an option for a percentage of the gross sales, and that was BEFORE they could coax him into taking the trunks off for a look at the equipment."

Superman looked puzzled. "They were saying something along the lines of, 'It's all right. If we have to play 'where's the beef' we can always get a stunt cock'." He looked at Clive. "Why are you choking?"

"Swallowed my gum, pet." He whispered to Scribe. "That's it. I'm digging out my super 8 and making some memories for my old age."

"I didn't hear that," she whispered back. "So, Supes, are we ready to get this show on the road?"

"Certainly. I'll be here monitoring your travel, of course, but I'll put the automatic timed retrieval on in case anything goes awry."

Clive sighed. "How can I not love a man who can unselfconsciously use the word 'awry'? I'm going, too."

"I'm not sure that's adviseable, Clive."

Clive raised an eyebrow. "Tell me, is it possible to lock onto more than one DNA pattern at a time?"

"Yes."

"I'm going."

"Clive..." Clive stepped up, boot-to-boot, brought his face about two inches from Superman's, and stared into his eyes. Superman blinked first. "Are you sure you're not a secret superhero?"

"Some of my submissives think I am. How do we do this?"

"I'll need a DNA sample for the transporter."

"And how shall we do that?"

"A hair would work, or any type of body fluid."

Clive laid a hand on Superman's chest tracing the S. "Any kind of body fluid?"

"Clive," Scribe was shaking her head.

Clive sighed. "Yes, darling, I know. So many dimensions, so little time." He plucked a hair, kissed it, and handed it to Superman, then looked at Scribe. "I hope you appreciate the sacrifices I'm willing to make for you."

"You're in my will. Of course all you'll inherit is a cat, a computer, and a ton of old, but not really valuable, comics."

Superman went off and did something scientific with the hair, then came back and typed information into the transporter for what seemed like ten minutes. Scribe looked over his should while he was doing it. Clive said, "Well?"

"Strings and strings and strings of numbers. Makes my head hurt. Damn, and I got cranky with my old computer when I had to do a couple of extra mouse clicks."

"I can't get over the fact that so many people own computers in your dimension."

"Yeah. Y'all are just moving out of the 'half a football field, oh m'gawd, don't let any dust in here' stage." She giggled. "When I saw those computer punch cards I had such a flashback! Soooo seventies!" She sighed. "Lord, I hated those things during college registration. I was always tempted to fold, spindle, or mutilate."

"Done." Superman pushed a final button.

"Lovely," Clive said. "What do we do now?"

"You go stand on that platform over there." He pointed.

Scribe looked at the platform. It was a circular dias. "Kinda narrow, isn't it?"

Superman rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, it was designed for one traveler."

"Scribe, darling, it isn't as if we haven't shared less space than that." Clive took her hand and pulled her up onto the dias, giving her a full body hug. "See? We fit nicely."

"And we'll give anyone who sees us arrive something to talk about. Okay, ready when you are, SM. Ouch! Clive, do not pinch my butt! I said SM as in SuperMan, not S and M."

Superman made an adjustment to the screen on the machine. "All right, I have the timer set for five minutes. If you need to come back sooner, just signal me."

"What about if we want to stay longer?" asked Clive. "I may meet someone cute."

"You're with someone cute," said Scribe. "Keep your mind on the matter at hand. C'mon, let's go."

Superman pushed the button.

She wasn't sure exactly what she was expecting. The last time... Okay, the only time this had happened before it had been simply that one moment she was one place, the next she was another. This time it felt like a wave of warm static electricity sweeping over her body. The surroundings seemed to fade, color draining away till everything went transparent--a very weird effect. Then the color faded back in, but the outline was different. Instead of being in the Fortress of Solitude lab, they were on a pretty normal looking street.

Scribe peered around, and noticed an elderly lady giving them the disapproving eye. "Well, the middle class attitudes seem to be right." Clive wiggled his tongue at the woman before he let go of Scribe. She clutched her chest, then hurried away. "Please, Clive. I'm not up on my CPR."

Clive examined a store sign that appeared to have been painted by a chicken on acid. "Does this look familiar?"

"No, but I suppose it could be Arabic or something like that. I'm not familiar with everyone's alphabet. One way to tell--I'll talk to someone." There was a pleasant looking man approaching, and she stopped him. "Excuse me. We're tourists. Can you direct me to the nearest tanning salon?" The man gave her a puzzled look. "Parlez vous French? Sprechen sie Doich? Hablo Espagnol?" She held her hands in front of her, flat and palms down, thumbs together, then pulled them apart with a waving motion. "Sign language?"

The man frowned. Then he began tapdancing and farting. Clive's mouth dropped open. Scribe shook her head. "We've gotten into a Kilgore Trout universe. God bless Kurt Vongut." She raised her voice. "Superman, beam us up."

*crackle* and they were back in the lab. "That wasn't it?" Superman asked.

"Not nearly. Next."

He turned a dial and pushed a button.

*crackle* Another plain street. No disapproving looks at their embrace this time. Someone DID applaud. "It bothers me that we appeared out of thin air and no one is having a fit," Scribe said. "Then again, this could be San Francisco." She looked around.

Clive noticed that her expression suddenly went stiff. "What is it?" She shook her head. Clive was alarmed to see her eyes tearing up. "Scribe, sweetie, what is it?"

Her voice was hushed. "The World Trade Center."

Clive looked over at two enormous, side-by-side skyscrapers. He whistled. "Impressive! Since you recognize it, I guess this must be your place, right?"

"No."

Her lip was trembling. Clive still had an arm around her, and he could feel her trembling. *She's really upset.* "Precious, what's wrong?"

She just buried her face against his shoulder and waved her hand, "Get us out of here, Superman. Please." Clive held her close as they transported again.

Back in the lab Superman was waiting with a chair and a glass of water. Clive made her sit down, and she sipped the water, then accepted a tissue to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. Clive squatted beside her, looking up at her. "Are you ready to tell us what that was all about, love?"

She sighed shakily. "Not now, Clive. If I'm here for much longer, but I'm not up to it right now."

Superman gave her a sympathetic look. "Bad?"

She shuddered, and there was a pain in her eyes that neither man had ever seen, not even after her run in with Luthor. This was not a personal pain--it was an agony for something very big. "Horrific." She put down the glass and stood up. "I'm not stopping after just two tries. I won't get anywhere if I'm a wimp. Let's try that again."

*crackle*

"Mmm... I suppose the Pope could announce the birth of his fifth child in my world, but it would be in The World Weekly News and not Time Magazine."

*crackle*

"Because it's Lincoln on the five and Washington on the one, and Harry Truman never made it onto a monetary unit, much less a fifteen dollar bill."

*crackle*

"No, animals can't talk in my world, and I would prefer not to be able to hear what a cat thought of me. I'd prefer that they remain mysterious so I can admire them without wanting to kick their fuzzy butts."

*crackle*

"Two words: Madame President."

*crackle*

"Clive, have I ever said anything that would lead you to believe that men in my dimension become pregnant on a regular basis?"

*crackle*

"Jerry O'Connell never won an Acadamy Award in my world, but he is a cutie, isn't he? Clive! PUT--HIM--DOWN! No, you cannot take him home! I'm sorry, Jerry. He means nothing but admira... Let go of that!! Clive, you're going to get us arrested! SUPERMAN!" *crackle*

"No Clive, the man walking a lizard on a leash does not necessarily disqualify this world. Neither does the fact that he's totally naked and no one seems to care. However, the fact that he has six nipples and no one is staring pretty much eliminate it from the possible list."

*crackle*

"Because McDonalds is not mentioned in the Michelin Guide at home, much less with a three star rating."

*crackle*

"Because that all natural, fat-free, salt-free, sugar free, high fiber, dietary cookie actually tasted good, that's why."

*crackle*

"They've never heard of Pop Tarts! Good God, man! They aren't civilized!"

*crackle*

"Precious, you mean to tell me that the pointy ears, the ridged noses, and the horseshoe crab foreheads are normal?"

"At a convention, yes."

"But this still isn't your home world because?"

"It's 2002 and the original series is still running."

*snort* *snicker* "Yes, pet, it is a bit overwhelming. But fucking intriguing."

*titter* *heeheeheeheeheeeeeeeeee* "Om'gawd! Kilts! Nothin' but kilts, as far as the eyes can see! The knees... the knees..."

"Hush, you'll get me started." *sigh* "What I wouldn't give for a good, stiff breeze."

"Stiff being the operative word?"

"I've taught you well."

"Taught me, hell. I was in touch with my inner vulgar broad a long time before we met. Lemme tell you about the Mel Gibson movie, Braveheart. Y'see in olden times these big, brawny Scots all line up to do battle with the English, and they're led by this gorgeous blue eyed guy. You'd love him, Clive. Hair down to here, and face painted half blue."

*coo*

"And he wants to show contempt for the enemy, so he and the entire force just..." *makes a gesture of whipping up a kilt* "And you know what they say about what a Scotsman wears beneath his kilt." Clive fanned himself. "Unfortunately they went to a long shot."

"Damn!"

"That's what I said."

*crackle*

"Stephen King is writing romance novels and Barbara Cartland is writing hardboiled mysteries. Also I saw an album titled 2Live Crew Sings the Best of Broadway. Ain't gonna happen."

*crackle*

"No pop up advertising on the Internet? No Yahell? Mmmmmmm... No. As much as I'd love this to be the place--no."

*crackle*

"That's enough for today, darling. You're exhausted."

Scribe was too tired and depressed to argue. "Sheesh. I feel like I'm trying to chip my way through a brick wall with a toothpick." She held her fingers together, nails a fraction apart in illustration. "One of the flat, cinnamon flavored ones."

"You rest up, Scribe," advised Superman. "I have an idea. I think I can locate Mixedpickles dimension. If we can track him down, maybe I can get him to send you home."

"Superman, from what I've seen of him, he isn't exactly the heart and soul of co-operation."

Clive patted her arm soothingly. "I believe that a combination of Superman and myself could be pretty persuasive."

"No duh. And if that fails," Scribe rubbed her hands together, "Mmmwhaaa haaa haaa!" They stared at her. She spoke matter of factly. "When all else fails, resort to deviousness."

Clive smiled. "Deviance?"

Scribe returned the smile. "That, too."

Chapter Fifty-five: Menage

Superman knocked on the french doors on Clive's balcony. The curtains were twitched aside and Clive peered out, then opened the door. "I don't know why I bothered to look," Clive drawled. "I don't know of anyone else who'd likely to appear on my balcony. Come in, but be quiet. Scribe is still asleep. She told me why she was upset yesterday, and the little sweetie had a heartfelt cry. It wore her out, then I wore her out some more." Superman lifted an eyebrow. "It's called hurt/comfort."

Superman stepped inside. "I know it's a little early, but I was excited and I wanted..." His voice trailed off when he got a look at Clive.

Clive was wearing a small smile, and that was it. "Yes? You got excited and you wanted...?"

"I... do you always answer the door naked?"

"Darling, how often do you think I have someone rap on my balcony door? Now, what was it you wanted to tell us?"

"I've located Mixedpickles' dimension. We can go get the location of her home dimension from him."

"Oh."

"You don't sound very enthused."

"Well, precious, it's beginning to look like she's going to be leaving soon, and I've gotten very attached to the lamb. Besides, there's a good chance that she might be carrying a little Clive."

"Or it could be a little Scribe." Superman looked over at the bed. Scribe was propped up on a pillow, sheets up to her chin, rubbing her eyes.

Clive came over and kissed her. "We'll have to settle on a neutral name if it becomes necessary."

"Right. We'd both be hard to live up to. Hi, Supes."

"Good morning, Scribe." He went over to stand by the bed. "Are you feeling well?"

"Yeah, I'm okay, but..." She whispered.

"What?" Scribe whispered again. "Beg your pardon?"

"And this is the man with super hearing." She crooked a finger at him. "Bend down." He bent over. She whispered, "What I was saying was..." She grabbed. "Surprise!"

"What?"

Clive jumped on him from behind. "Ambush!"

"Oof!" He fell on top of Scribe. "Scribe! Are you all right?"

She giggled madly. "What do you think?" *grab*

"Oh, my!"

Clive, draped over his back, nibbled the nape of his neck. "She has fast hands, doesn't she? And a perfectly wonderful inventive mind." He grabbed at Superman's trunks.

"I... hey! Clive, it's morning!"

*grope* "You're on a schedule, pet? We need to make an appointment?"

Scribe, under Superman, wiggled. "Couldn't you just fit us in?"

Clive snorted. "You get a spanking for that pun later, pet."

"This is silly." Superman tried to get up. Scribe wrapped her legs around his waist. "Oh... uh... Scribe, you sleep nude?"

Scribe peered over his shoulder at Clive. "I told you he'd notice."

"So observant. It's one of the things I love about him. Pet, move the legs a bit. I can't get the trunks down with that grip you have."

"Okey-dokey."

Superman protested. "Wait a minute! Both of you? That's... that's..."

Clive licked his neck. "Exotic?"

Scribe wiggled again. "Kinky?"

"Intriguing." Superman kissed Scribe.

Clive peeled the trunks down. "See, lovey? I told you he was ready for this. We're making memories for Scribe, Superman. I want to be sure she has incentive to come back often."

"Oh. Well, then, I'll have to do my part, won't I?"

Clive stroked Superman's just bared bottom. "Actually, pet, I was planning on doing your part."

"Before or after Scribe and I... Uh..."

Clive arched an eyebrow. "During."

"Wha...?"

"Close your mouth. It's far too great a temptation, and I already have plans."

"Oh, but really, I don't think... Scribe, what are you doing?"

"What does it feel like I'm doing?"

"Trying to drive me crazy."

"Is it working?

"Yes. But Scribe, are you sure this won't be too uncomfortable for you?"

She giggled. "Somehow I have the feeling that you'll be all right about holding your weight off me. Are we ready to...?" *grope* "Ooo, yes, we are." *crinkle*

"Scribe, what are you...?"

"Hey, there's a chance I might not be pregnant, so I'm not taking any chances." *smooth*

"You hold on a minute, darling," Clive cautioned. "You may be ready, but Kal here isn't. You get the full treatment this time, dear. I've got the best grade of lube. Feel." *part* *stroke*

"Ooh, yeahh. I see what you mean," Superman groaned.

"I warmed it. Aren't I thoughtful? Deep breath." *push* *gasp* "Sweetums, you were supposed to breathe first. How are you?"

"I'm okay. You know, contrary to popular belief, I can experience pain," Superman said quietly.

"Oh, pet, I'm sorry! Scribe, precious, do something to help him forget the ache."

"How stretchy is this material, anyway?" Scribe plunged a hand down the uniform's neckline. "Oo, better than jersy or spandex." She paused. "This will snap back to the original shape, won't it?" He nodded. "Good." She reached deeper, feeling along the plane of his chest. "Ah, there we are." *tweak* *gasp* She looked at Clive, smiling. "Supernipple." *rubrubrub* "Is that helping, Kal?"

"Ooooh, yesss."

"Well, if I can just find a little something I should be able to make you forget all about the ache. Kal, darling, should I tell Scribe to move, or to hang on?"

"It should be okay if she just hangs on."

"We're trusting you. Scribe, precious?"

"Yes?" she asked.

"Hang on." Clive probed deeply, curving his fingers. Superman suddenly cried out, his eyes going wide and his body arching. "I told you I'd introduce you to your prostate. Say hello, darling." He rubbed.

"Heh-lo!" Superman breathed.

"Scribe, I think your smart-assitude may very well be catching. How wonderful. Would you like a little more of that, dear?"

"Please?"

"Of course." Clive rubbed strongly.

Scribe whooped as Superman humped against her. "Hurry up, Clive, or this will end up as a solo instead of a team effort."

"Patience, love." Clive snagged a condom packet off the night table and tore it open, rolling on his erection. "Kal-el, are you ready for this?" Vigorous nods. "You're going to be my second beautiful virgin in under a month. I must've been very, very good in a former life."

"Doesn't he talk sweet?" Scribe sighed. "Clive, shouldn't he get, um, situated first?"

"I'm not sure it will make that big a difference, lamb."

"Lemme put it this way--I'm interested in feeling what it's like when he feels what he's gonna feel."

"Ah, I see your point." Clive rubbed Kal-el's back. "Go on." When he hesitated, gazing questioningly at Scribe, Clive pinched his butt. "Go on, dear. It's rude to keep a lady waiting. Well, unless it's part of a play scene, and you're intent on driving her bananas before you satisfy her."

Superman bit his lip. Scribe's smile softened, and she reached up to caress his cheek. "I really want it, Kal. You're not just a hot guy, you've been a good friend to me. You've helped hold me together, tolerated my nuttiness, and you're busting your back trying to find me a way home..." her voice lowered to a whisper, "when I know you'd rather I stayed." She craned up and kissed him gently. "Make love to me."

Kal-el slowly lowered himself a little, then moved against her. Scribe breathed deeply, and Kal-el moaned as he slid inside.

Clive watched with affectionate approval. There were few things as nice as seeing two splendid people you cared for making each other so happy. Scribe looked at him over Kal-el's shoulder, and her voice was surprised. "It's different."

"Of course, pet. Always different, always the same. Kal-el? I know you want to move, but hold still for just a moment. Scribe and I are going to make it very difficult for your subsequent lovers to live up to this memory."

Scribe felt Kal-el tense as Clive moved up behind him. She stroked his sides soothingly. "Don't worry. Clive is a fantastic lover."

"I don't doubt you, Scribe, but you've never had him do this." She raised an eyebrow. "Have you?"

She smiled. "I lost my virginity several weeks ago. Clive isn't a man to follow a routine."

"Don't say lost, precious. We're not going to find it under a sofa cushion. Say gave up or exorcised, or something like that. Once again, lamb--deep breath."

Clive moved. He slid into the tight, hot clasp of Kal-el's body slowly, ready to stop at the first sign of distress. There was none. The big, muscular body under him shuddered, but then relaxed slightly, opening to accept him.

Once he was deeply seated he paused to give everyone time to adjust. In truth, he needed the moment as much as either of his lovers. He was a kink veteran, but this situation was fairly unusual, even by his standards, and he didn't want it to end too quickly. He ran his hand over the broad plain of Superman's back, feeling the solid shift of muscle under the thin, silky material of his uniform. "How are we doing?"

Kal-el's voice was thick. "I don't know about you, but I'm doing just fine."

Clive laughed softly. "You ought to be able to feel how I'm doing." He pulled back a little, then bumped forward.

Kal-el made a throaty sound. "Yes, I can tell." He pushed back.

"Well!" There was a little surprise in Clive's voice. "Aren't you just the precocious little thing?"

Scribe reached up, grabbed Kal-el's hips, and pulled him back, sheathing him again. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I was just..."

Clive ground forward, pushing Kal-el forward, drawing a happy sound from both he and Scribe. "Don't let her tease you, dear. Whichever way you move now, you're going to make someone happy." He started to hump in a strong, steady rhythm.

Superman wondered if he could die from sheer pleasure. Each thrust Clive made filled him with heat and rubbed over that miraculous spot that sent sparks sizzling along every nerve. Each thrust drove him deep into the sweet, liquid heat of the woman who wiggled under him, peppering his jaw and throat with soft, appreciative kisses.

He didn't know how long it lasted--five minutes, two hours--probably somewhere inbetween. Somewhere along the line Scribe arched and bucked under him, her body clenching him in a grip that was exquisite--just the right side of painful. Clive kissed his ear, whispering, "Well done, precious!"

A few moments later he grabbed at the mattress hard. This time he didn't tear anything up when he orgasmed, though later Clive assured him that it would have been permissable, even if those WERE his good silk sheets on the bed.

He felt himself squeeze involuntarily around the cock embedded in his ass. Clive groaned, and for just a second he was afraid that he'd done exactly what Clive had expressed worry over and.......... damaged something. But Clive was jerking against him and muttering, "Oh, yes, oh God, yes!" and he knew it was all right. The pleasure was so intense that he drove into Scribe several more times as the tide of sensation rolled back out.

Finally everyone was still except for some very heavy breathing.

Scribe was the first to speak. "Love y'all, but get the hell off me so I can breath." Clive and Superman both scrambled off. She drew a deep breath, smiled, and held out her arms toward the two men. "Okay, assume the positions."

"That means cuddle time, darling," Clive explained. "You get the left side--I always take the right."

Perfectly willing, Kal-el lay down beside Scribe while Clive did the same on the other side. She looped an arm around each of their necks, drawing them in close. Clive peered at Kal-el over her bare bosom. "You'd never guess she's such a snuggle bunny."

Kal-el curled against her. "I think it's nice."

"Hey, sure it is. I'm a nice lady." She gave the ceiling what could only be interpreted as a smug grin. "Here I lie, between two of the most gorgeous male creatures to ever walk the face of any Earth, any dimension. Envy me, world. Ow!"

"Vain submissives get admonished," Clive said blandly.

Scribe rubbed the smarting place on her hip. "Brute." He made a kissing motion at her. "All right, all right. So I'm not entirely nice."

Kal-el nuzzled his face against her neck. "But you most certainly are good."

He honestly didn't understand why Scribe and Clive burst out laughing.

Chapter Fifty-six: A Question Answered, and a Mother of a Cliffhanger. You've Been Warned.

Clive tapped on the bathroom door. They were supposed to be leaving for the Fortress of Solitude again (Superman was waiting in the livingroom) and Scribe had excused herself quite awhile ago. "Precious? You haven't fallen in, or anything, have you?"

Her voice was faint. "Nope."

He waited, but there was no further explanation. He tapped again. "Doll? Are you sick?"

"No, not really."

She came out, and Clive was immediately alert. Her eyes were red, and her face flushed. He said, "You said you weren't sick."

"And I'm not. Not any more than I ever am, anyway." She paused. "Once a month. For about three days." Tears welled up in her eyes.

"Oh. Oh, precious." Clive opened his arms, and Scribe went into them. The Dom held her and rocked her gently while she cried a little more. When she slowed to hiccups he said softly, "So, is this regret, or relief?" He fingers tightened on his arms, and he said quickly, "God, darling, I'm sorry."

"No, it's all right." She pulled away, and wiped her nose with the wad of tissues she'd been carrying. "It's, uh, it's a little of both, I guess. I really couldn't think about being a mother while I'm still so up in the air about this thing." She sniffed, and smiled. "I mean, I'm goofy enough normally."

Clive kissed her cheek. "Modesty is fine, self-denigration is not." He hugged her again. "There'll be time, when you're ready, if you really want to."

She blew out a breath and returned the smile wanly. "Right. Well, let's get on with this. I'd like to get my daily dose of tension out of the way."

*

At the Fortress of Solitude

"You're sure you can find this place? I haven't had any luck finding my home dimension."

Superman gave Scribe a sympathetic look. "Normally I wouldn't be so positive about it, but I did have a bit of Mixedpickles DNA to use for a lock." Scribe looked at Clive. "Look, I know the thing's name isn't really Mixedpickles, but that's what I hear whenever anyone says it. Can you figure it out?"

Clive shrugged. "Mixedpickles sounds pretty close to me, darling."

Scribe grumbled. "Damn. I need to get my hands on a sixties issue of Superman, so I can..."

Clive was eyeing Superman. "This issue looks pretty good to me."

"Comic book, Clive, comic book. Anyway, you should see it written down. Looks like most of the Scrabble hands I've been dealt. You never saw so many consonants in a row in all your life, not outside of the Eastern block, anyway. How did you get DNA?"

"Don't you remember the Mixedpickles display in my Trophy Room? I got his derby during one of our confrontations, and there was a hair inside it."

"Oo, and the lil booger can't afford to lose too many of those."

Clive looked like he was considering something. "Bald?"

Scribe shook her head. "You wouldn't be interested. He's got a few wisps, not enough to even get a good hold on, and besides, I'm pretty sure he does that 'comb a few strands over the dome' thing." Clive made a sound like a cat trying to hack up a hairball. "You learned that from Tietlbaum, didn't you?"

He ignored the question. "How are we going to do this, dear?"

Superman said, "Well, I've locked all our DNA patterns into the machine, and I came up with this handy-dandy little remote control." He showed them a small electronic gadget.

Scribe peered at it. "Looks like a pager."

Superman blinked. "What's a pager?"

"One of the major either blessings or curses of my world--depends on who you ask. Does it chirp like a cricket, or play the theme from Star Wars?" *blink* "Never mind. It would take too long to explain. Does it work?"

"We'll find out, I guess. I have the machine set to retrieve us in a couple of hours, just in case." He pointed to the dais. "I expanded it a little, so we could all go at once."

Clive patted him on the shoulder. "Good for you, dear. I don't mind snuggling--close can be a lot of fun, but I think we would have fallen off that thing if either of us sneezed."

"Go on up and I'll just set the machine."

Clive and Scribe went and climbed up on the low dais. Clive stood behind Scribe and wrapped his arms around her. "Ya know, Clive, he did expand the space. You can move back a little." Clive rested his chin on her shoulder and goosed her. "Or not. I'm easy."

"No, you're not," he whispered, "but you're worth the effort."

Superman hurried back and climbed up on the dais with them. "Five seconds."

Clive arched an eyebrow at him. "Shouldn't you hang on, pet? I hate to think of what would happen if you slipped and fell of during transfer. I mean, it's hard enough to find your way back if you've been dropped neatly in another dimension, but if you fell between the cracks..." Superman put his arms around both Clive and Scribe, and Clive whispered in her ear, "Works every time."

There was that odd, all over static feeling again, and the surroundings melted, bleached, reformed, and colored, then solidified. Scribe rather wished they hadn't. She squinched her eyes shut. "Oh, wow. Clive, tell me I'm not seeing what I think I'm seeing."

Clive's voice was pained. "Fuchsia, cotton candy pink and tangerine? Sorry, pet. Wish I could."

She opened her eyes, looking around. "Lordamighty. This place looks like fun house designers and Pee Wee Herman dropped acid, then put their heads together to design it."

"I'm going to have a headache very, very soon. Kal, Clive--let go so I can sit on that bench over there."

They let go, and an indignant voice said, "Hey!" They looked around. A short, pugnacious female who bore an alarming resemblance to Mixedpickles, and was wearing an outfit that would have given a color-blind gypsy disco queen a spastic attack was glaring at them. "What's the idea of letting go? I was planning on selling tickets to the threesome."

Clive regarded her. "If and when I decide to perform, it will be by invitation only."

"I could give you a cut," she said slyly.

"I could kick your sadly-clad behind," snarled Scribe. Superman tried to shush her. "Oh, stop it, Kal! My nerves are pretty much shot right now--I'm not up to being polite to someone offering me the chance to be exploited." She took a deep breath. "Look, we're trying to find Mixedpickles."

The tiny woman cocked her head. "Who?"

"His name isn't really Mixedpickles," explained Superman. "It's actually Mixedpickles."

Scribe rolled her eyes. "I told you it always sounds the same to me." She looked at the woman again and said, slowly and clearly, "MIXED-PICKLES."

Orange eyebrows rose. "Oooooo--him. He's over in the Tishamingo Towers building, I think. Just don't let that crazy guy in the lavender dental smock and the sneaks with jingle bells talk you into the dentist's office."

"Wouldn't dream of it. Where's the Tishamingo Towers?"

"Well, duh." She pointed. Down the block they could see two huge buildings that were, sure enough, shaped like Ts (complete with the little hangy down things on each end of the top bar. "You sure I can't talk you into going into partnership? I mean, if you don't want to do peeps, I could still get you all gigs in a freak show." She got excited and started dancing around. "I know! The world's first co-ed pro basketball team! After all, you're all way fucking tall."

Scribe shook her head. "No way. Basketball uniforms are the most butt ugly of any, including hockey." She held up a finger. "Now, baseball..."

Clive nodded. "Clinging jersey."

"Or rugby."

Clive fanned himself. "Tiny shorts."

"But those floaty, baggy-ass shorts..."

"I don't know, dear. I keep hoping that something will flash during a pile-up. In any case, I think it's time we made our way. Onward."

They made their way down the street. Now that they were actually moving, the citizens became more apparent. There was actually quite a bit of traffic--pedestrian and motor. Scribe watched the tiny cars, each about the size of a chest freezer, chug past. "The last time I saw a car that size, it was in a circus, and twenty clowns were getting out of it."

Superman indicated one that was screaming neon purple. "Wow, they have some strange colors."

"Actually I've seen a few that color back in my home dimension." They stared at her. "I didn't say I LIKED them. I think they were bought mainly by teenage boys, or people who often forgot where they'd parked their car, and needed to be able to locate it easily." Someone wearing green, pink, and orange plaid walked past, and she winced. "Clive? Could you blindfold me and lead me wherever we're going? I'm getting a headache."

He patted her cheek. "As much as I love blindfolding you, pet, I don't think it would be wise right now." He swatted at something. Scribe looked down in time to see a sniggering midget scooting away. "Goose attempt, pet. I figured I'd rather not have to chase you down while you were trying to kill him."

They started off again. After about half a block, Scribe sighed. "All these little red-heads bobbing along just at the bottom edge of my vision. I now have an idea of what Judy Garland must've felt like." She felt her shirt being lifted in back and swung behind herself without looking. She connected with something slightly squashy, and there was a smack, a yelp, and the sound of someone scuttling away. "I'm just glad I don't have to wear that cutesypoo lil jumper--I'd have to cinch it around my thighs if I didn't want the entire dimension to know what color my panties are."

"But everyone in our dimension knows, Scribe," offered Superman. She arched an eyebrow at him. "It was in all the tabloids--you only wear plain white undies. There's been a tremendous upswing in their sale since that was made public."

"Didn't your mama ever tell you not to believe everything you read in those things?"

"You mean that they aren't...?" He blushed.

She rolled her eyes. "It might spoil the Adult Conspiracy, so I'm not telling."

"I am," said Clive. He winked at Superman. "Pink, with big red smoochies."

While Superman gaped, Scribe swatted Clive on the arm. "And who's fault is that? He hid all my plain ones. I just have to hope I don't have an accident, or the EMTs will have something to talk about for ages."

They'd reached the building and went inside. Scribe stared around, interested. "Any bets on what made the holes in the wall?"

"No, and I'm not speculating about how that duck ended up in the ventilator grill, either," said Clive.

Superman said, "My guess is that the cat swimming in the indoor fountain chased it up there."

"Are you sure this isn't a Swedish art movie dimension?" Scribe asked. "Look there's a directory over there. Let's see if we can find a listing for the psychotic pixie." They went over and looked at the large board. It was one of those kinds covered with narrow slits, and tiny plastic letters and numbers seated in them. "Hoo. Looks like someone coated the sucker with glue and then threw Scrabble sets at it."

"Still," Clive ran a finger along some of the lines, "there seems to be a method to the madness. These on this side look like business names, and there are floor and room numbers, so these over here must be names."

Scribe moved up close behind him, peering over his shoulder. "Slattybarstok, Grymytleikanak, Plotz, Shazbat, Jones... Ah!" She pointed. "Mr. Mxyztplk. Hot damn! I finally know how it's spelled," she crowed.

"I believe that it is pronounced 'mix-yez-pit-el-ick'."

She gave him a jaundiced look. "Uh-huh. So, what's Mixedpickles doing here in the Tishamingo Towers."

Clive checked. "Well, he seems to be right next to Dr. Nelson C. Armadingo, DDS." He read again. "Um, and Tooth Fairy."

"We'll sneak past, and I think we should walk up, judging from the fact that there's a bungee cord concession next to the elevators."

"It's on the fifth floor," observed Clive. He shrugged. "Oh, well. It's excellent for the glutes. Wagons ho, precious."

They trudged up the four flights of stairs, having to move quickly to the sides twice: once when someone skiied past, and once when a hail of golf balls flew past. Clive ended up rubbing the top of his head and swearing quiet vengence on the first denzin of this dimension he saw who had golf clubs or was wearing golf togs.

They finally reached the fifth floor and started looking at doors. Scribe wasn't too dreadfully surprised to see that some of them were marked with numbers, others were marked with letters, and a few had what seemed to be hieroglyphics. They finally located Hawk3Q. The sign on the door said 'Mxyztplk's Fine Foods. You'll relish our gherkins, chow-down on our chow-chow, and pine for our piccalili'. Scribe gave Superman a smug look. "As I was saying, MIXEDPICKLES."

"Don't be snarky, pet, or I'll quickly have your bottom just as pink as your scanties," Clive warned.

Scribe rapped on the door. A high-pitched voice inside called out. "Just slip the money under the door."

"What about the order?" Scribe asked.

"Uh, yeah. Sure. Shove that in, too, if you wanna."

*rapraprap*

"Open up, Shortstuff."

*pause* "No habla English."

"Si habla Tex-Mex. I'm from south Texas, bub--you don't get off that easy."

Nothing. *rapraprap* "Candygram."

"I've seen that show."

"Great, wasn't it? C'mon, Annoying--open up. I have someone out here who can convert your door to toothpicks." Clive tapped her on the shoulder. "I have two someone's out here who can splinter it."

"No way, Toots."

She thought. "Open up, and I'll let you grope me."

*click* *zip* Scribe had a short, bald, orange clad nutcase fastened to her bosom. She plucked him off and slapped him silly. "Hey! You said I could."

"I never said there wouldn't be consequences. Remember me, Munchkin? Stop staring at my chest--you didn't get that good a look at it the first time around."

"Gimme a hint."

"I tackled you like you were a rookie quarterback."

He squealed and thrashed angrily. "That was after those blind cheats denied me my just victory!"

"Denial--nothing quite like it." She shook him. "I wanna go home!"

He sneered. "So click your heels together three times and say..."

"Give him to me, pet." Scribe handed Mixedpickles over. Clive dangled him by the scruff of the neck so that he was eye-to-eye with him. "Be polite to that lady, or..." he bunched up a fist and showed it to him, "I shall put this somewhere that will cause you great discomfort, and I don't mean in your face."

Mixedpickles didn't look too frightened. "Crank it down a notch, Butch. Okay, maybe I over-reacted a bit." He snickered. "Ya gotta admit it was a good joke, though."

"I haven't laughed so hard since double-daylight savings time forced me to walk to my bus stop in pitch dark," snapped Scribe. "Shake him, Clive."

"Ask nicely."

"Pretty please."

*shakeshakeshake* The derby fell off. "Hey!" Mixedpickles protested.

Scribe smacked him on the bald pate. "You're not the worst bald-headed man I've ever run into, but you're running a close second!" She smacked him again. "If I have to go back to Superman's dimension instead of home, I'm calling a press conference. I'm saying that you're hung like a runt gerbil, your palm is so callussed that you can smooth sandpaper with it, and you're the leading cause of radical lesbianism in your home dimension."

He yelped. "You can't do that! We monitor the media over there! You'll ruin my rep! My score rate will plummit."

"From zero to negative?" Clive murmured. Mixedpickles tried to kick him.

Scribe caught his foot. "You really don't want to do that. It isn't that I'm concerned for your wellfare--it's just that I'd have a hard time getting you to send me home if I have to get you up with a squeegee and a sponge." He scowled at her. She sighed. "Okay." She peered into his office. "Oh, good, you have a window." She went in and opened it, then looked out. "My, my. You know, it looks a LOT farther down than I expected it to. Clive, bring him here, would you?"

Clive did. Scribe took a firm hold on both of Mixedpickle's ankles. "Now, then--I must warn you that I don't have a whole hell of a lot of upper body strength. Never even managed a single chin-up in gym, despite my Amazon coach's exhortations. So I'd say I can probably dangle you a total of, oh, say thirty seconds. That is IF my palms don't get sweaty, and you don't wiggle much."

Mixedpickle's mouth dropped open. "You wouldn't dare!"

"I thought you'd been paying attention to the media in the other dimension. Have you NOTICED that I'm a particularly restrained person? Send me home, or I make a psych test blot out of you."

He looked at Superman. "You're a hero! You can't let this happen!"

Superman folded his arms. "It's my day off." Clive blew a kiss at him.

"Besides," there was a hint of despiration in the little man's voice. "I can float! It won't do you any good to dangle me. When you let go, I'll just hover."

"You know," Scribe said conversationally, "I've learned that there was a whole lot I just took for granted in the comic book dimension, and that things over here don't always work like you expect them to. I just have this sneaking suspicion that maybe that levitation bit doesn't work on your home turf." She put her face close to Mixedpickles'. "I've always kind of wanted to play high stakes poker. So, Mixedpickless, I happen to think you're bluffing. Your call."

Chapter Fifty-seven: What? No Yellow Ribbons?

"I'd listen to her if I were you, you nasty little man," advised Clive. "She can be testy at the best of times, and she's on the rag right now."

"A bit inelegantly put, but accurate," agreed Scribe. "I'm normally a kind hearted soul, but right now the only reason I'd cry after dropping you would be if you landed on someone." She thought. "Actually, judging from the population that we've met so far, I'd only be upset if you, like, landed on a passing cat."

"You wouldn't dare!" said Mixedpickles indignantly.

"Clive, be a dear and swing his torso out the window. Be ready to let go when I tell you."

"Certainly, love." Clive started to stuff Mixedpickles through the window.

Mixedpickles grabbed at the window frame. "Waitwaitwait! Perhaps I've been too hasty."

"Ya think? Clive, maybe if you put your foot on his chest and push..."

"Well, I can try, precious, but remember that I'm only so flexible."

"Ain't what I've heard."

"Flatterer. Let me just shift my weight, and..."

"Alright, already! I'll send her back!" Mixedpickles screamed.

Clive grabbed the midget's shirt and hauled him back from the brink. "Thaaat's a reasonable little psychopath."

"How do we do this?" Scribe asked.

"Simple," said Mixedpickles. "Just strip, and we have sex, then..."

She sighed. "Give me his feet again, Clive."

"Heh, no need for that. Just a joke, ya know," Mixedpickles protested.

"You write for Paulie Shore, right?"

Mixedpickles gasped. "Well, if you're going to be insulting."

Superman said, "Who's Paulie Shore?"

Scribe patted his cheek. "You don't know how blessed you are. Yes, you have to live in a world that has Lex Luthor, but you are free from so many others."

"If you're quite through with petting the superhero," Mixedpickle's voice was snide, "we can get on with this. Scribe, grab hold of me." He wiggled his eyebrows. "Any old where will do."

I smiled sweetly, cracking my knuckles. "Are you absolutely sure about that?"

He paled slightly. "The arm or shoulder will do. You, tough guy--let go if you don't want to have an unscheduled trip."

"Just never you mind. She's not going anywhere without me."

"What? Look, I'll agree to take her back where I got here--that's only fair, in a twisted sort of way that appeals to me. But there's no reason why I should go schlepping you all around the multiverses. This sort of thing makes me tired!"

"You won't have to. Superman has his own little device cooked up. He has a way of keeping track of me, and snapping me back to our home dimension later on. Don't you, dear?"

"Already tested and tried," Superman agreed. "Um, Scribe... as much as I'd like to see you home..."

She gave him a kiss. "It's okay, sweetie. Check your thingy and make sure it's locked on me 'n Clive, then go on back to the Fortress and keep an eye on what happens. If this works out, I'll need you to tell Lois and Jimmy good-bye for me, and be ready to snatch Clive back."

"Hold on, precious. Supe, if we do get back to her place, you can just hold off on that snatching for a couple of weeks. Lambie has been through a traumatic experience, and I intend to help her re-adjust. Besides, her dimension sounds very interesting. I mean, no villains with super powers--just your ordinary thugs, terrorists, and psychopaths? Sounds positively restful."

"All right, Clive. If this," he held up the remote, "works, I'll be able to transport you from the Fortress, and..."

"You will come and get me yourself," Clive said firmly. "Honestly. You could give someone a heart attack if I just winked out at an inopportune moment. And besides, it smacks faintly of a date sitting in the car and blowing his horn instead of coming to the front door, like a gentleman."

Superman saluted. "Yes, sir." He hugged Scribe, kissed her cheek, and said, "I really hope we get to see each other again. You... you're..." He faultered, then shrugged. "Well, you're you."

"If you make me cry, I'll smack you," said Scribe, a trifle gruffly.

He set the machine, hit a button, and was gone. A second later he reappeared, grinned, said, "Works!" and disappeared again.

"That's a relief," said Scribe. "Now no matter where we end up, he can retrieve us." She took hold of Mixedpickles' arm. Clive tightened his grip on the little man's shoulder. "Ready when you are, MP."

"Fine. Now, then, close your eyes, and concentrate on your own dimension. Think about the exact same place that you were when we left."

She closed her eyes and thought of the hotel in Houston, and the convention rooms in particular. *Please, God. I'm tired of all the hoopla. I've had fun, I've met interesting people,* She felt Clive's free hand comfortingly on her shoulder. *I've met fantastic people, but I'm ready for some peace and quiet. Let me get back to where I'm just a simple, obscure little fangirl, okay?*

There was that all over, static-electricity-but-not sensation, and the atmosphere around her changed subtly. Noises began to fade in...

*

The woman in the tasteful business suit and lots and lots of hair was standing in the middle of the stage, fidgiting while the hair girl applied one more spritz of holder. "I do not believe this!" she muttered. "Why the fuck didn't someone warn me that Steven Spielburg would be here, shooting a segment for that real life Urban Legends series they've been whispering about for the last few months? I'd have had time to have that tooth capped, if I'd made an emergency call to the dentist."

"Chill, Therese," the camera man said. "This is a real break for you. He's going to be filming you doing your bit while I do the same. Guess who's gonna make more money off it?"

"You know, when they assigned me to cover this weird ass disappearance, I was pissed. Who'd have thought that it would get so famous so quick?"

"Yeah, well, it was a slow news day, and we had a skeleton crew here filming the costume competition for some filler. That footage of the girl and the two mystery contestants disappearing into thin air is gonna make a mint. The booger is already being analyzed harder than the Zappgruder film and the Big Foot footage combined. So far it seems genuine. It's the first known recorded disappearance that didn't involve David Copperfield."

She was peering down into the audience area, where the familiar man with the baseball cap and the salt-and-pepper beard was talking earnestly to two young men. "Who's that Speilberg is interviewing? Have we got footage on them yet?"

"Those two are friends of the woman who disappeared. They recognized her from the footage they ran last night. Names are Alex and Lawrence something. One of 'em fainted when they saw the film. I hear that the tabloids are already after them for exclusives, but they're too distraut to talk to them."

"Wow. They must've really been good friends."

The camera man shrugged. "It's not like the tabloids won't go ahead and make the interviews up, anyway." He checked his watch. "Showtime, girly. This is going out live, and there's no time to spare."

They shooed the hair and make-up people away. The woman took her place at the edge of the stage, the cameraman settled his camera on his shoulder, sound man checked levels, and they got ready. The cameraman held up a hand, fingers extended, and tucked them each as the seconds counted down. Finally he pumped his clenched fist, and she began, "Good evening, Houston. We're live here at the downtown Urbana Hotel--scene of last night's bizarre--some have even said unnatural, disappearance."

She walked a few steps farther to the side, the cameras following her. "It occured during the final day costume contest of one of the fan conventions that this hotel is famous for hosting."

"Plug inserted," murmured the cameraman.

"There was some sort of disturbance. Apparently one of the contestants believed he had been cheated of a win, and attempted to steal the blue ribbon. We'll run that footage in just a moment, for those few of our audience who haven't seen it. In any case, the thief, described as a gaudily clad, bald midget, was stopped by another contestant, and an onlooker. Then they all just..." she waved her hand, "disappeared. There were no exits, no trap doors, no curtains, but suddenly they were gone, before the very eyes of well over a hundred witnesses, and it was caught on tape by our own Channel 7 news crew."

"To make matters even more strange, we have only been able to identify one of the people who went missing. Despite the careful records kept by the contest promoters, there is no record of either of the two men having entered the competition. No one can recall having seen them until moments before the incident. The woman, however, has been identified. Friends who viewd the tape contacted authorities to identify her as Scribe Mozelle, a woman who'd checked into the hotel only minutes before the incident." Lawrence was sobbing loudly, while Alex held him comfortingly. Speilberg's second cameraman was filming them, while the first filmed the filming. The reporter continued. "She was registered to attend the horror convention that began today. Events have had to be shifted drastically to leave the scene of this alleged disappearance free, but the convention promotors have gone on record as being whole-heartedly in favor of anything that might help find the missing woman."

The reporter gazed solemnly into the lens. "What really happened to Scribe Mozelle? We may never know. All we can do right now is hope and pray that she somehow finds her way home..."

There was a pop, and suddenly three people appeared in mid-air, right over the reporter. All the television cameraman caught were a couple of pairs of dangling legs, but it turned out that Speilberg got a splendid full body shot of them popping into existence. Later he'd remark that he was a little disappointed--that the special effects in his movies usually looked more spectacular than the real thing.

In the split second before they dropped, the one in the middle, the little, orange clad one, whooped, "Wish granted!" There was another pop, he disappeared, and the other two landed in a tangle of arms and legs right on top of a very startled newswoman.

It was quiet in the room. Most mouths were agape. The three on the stage sat up rather groggily. The reporter, stunned, said, "What the fuck happened?" She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. "Shit! The FCC is gonna get my ass!"

"Who cares!" yelled Scribe. With all her recent experience with the media, she immediately recognized the news crew. Throwing her arms wide she crowed. "Yeeeeeeee-ha! Hello, Houston! Your wandering girl has come home!"

"Scribe"

It was a duet scream from Alex and Lawrence, who stormed the stage, swarming up without bothering to go around to the steps. She scrambled to her feet and in a moment, the three were hugging, bouncing, and squealing. "What have you done to your hair?" Lawrence asked. "I love it!"

Clive sighed. "I think I'm going to like it here."

The female reporter watched the scene numbly. "What the hell just happened?"

The very handsome blond man in leather, sitting half-across her lap, said, "You got Scribisized, precious. She can be a tad overwhelming." He frowned, touching the woman's hair. It didn't move. "What criminal have you been letting do your hair?" She patted it self-consciously.

"Scribe, your mother has been having an absolute fit!" said Lawrence, slapping her on the shoulder.

"We've all been worried sick," said Alex. "The crowd down at the Rendevous were already talking about setting up a canister and having a barbeque to gather money to hire a private detective to look for you."

"How long have I been gone?" she looked around, peeking out the entrance to the large room. The entrance was rapidly filling with gawkers, but she could see booths and decorations. *squeal!* "The spirits have done it all in one night! I'm not gonna miss the convention!"

A man in a suit approached. "Miss, are you really Scribe Mozelle?"

"I'd be very surprised to find that there are more than one of me."

"I'm Detective Alan Rossovic. Were you aware that we have been searching for you?"

"Really? That's so nice of you." She turned back to her friends. "So, have they started the movie marathon? I can pass on the classics, but aren't they supposed to run trailers for Rob Zombie's coming movie?"

"Miss, we need to get a statement from you and figure out exactly what happened," the detective said.

Scribe laughed. "Good luck. I went through it, and I don't know what happened."

"I'll have to ask you to accompany me to the station so we can get statements."

"You can get statements on Monday. I paid for this convention--I'm enjoying it."

"I'll have to insist."

She rounded on on him, eyes glinting. "What am I charged with?"

"Uh... well..."

"Thought so. You can wait." She turned back to Alex and Lawrence. "Did Savini make it in? I have something for him to autograph."

"He sure did," said Alex. "And look who's taking home movies." He pointed at the bearded, glasses wearing man, who was watching this all with fascination.

Scribe blinked, then squinted. "Is that who I think it is?" Her friends nodded. "Wow! That's the third richest man I've ever seen!"

"Scribe," said Lawrence, "I know who you hang with. Who have you met who could possibly be on a par with Steven Spielberg?" "Lex Luthor and Bruce Wayne."

Alex and Lawrence exchanged looks. Alex said slowly, "It didn't look like she landed on her head."

Scribe said patiently, "Did you, or did you not, just see me appear out of thin air?"

"Ye-es."

"Then why is it so hard to believe that I met Luthor and Wayne?"

Again looks were exchanged. "She has a point," said Lawrence.

The female reporter, her hair-do squashed sideways, came up, microphone extended. "Miss Mozelle! Can you explain your startling disappearance, and even more startling re-appearance?"

Clive stepped between Scribe and the reporter. "I already told you--you're not coming anywhere near her till you have that godawful mess on your head taken care of. I'm a tolerant man in most cases, pet, but I mistrust anyone who'd allow that to be done to them in the name of career advancement." He waved his hand. "Shoo. Shoo."

The cameraman said, "They just cut us off, anyway. We need to get back to the studio so we can start putting together your bit for the ten o'clock news. They're gonna give you the feature bit!" They both ran.

Clive was staring at Lawrence and Alex. Alex was a large, buff young man with shoulder length dark, wavy hair. Lawrence was a small, slender, rather delicate young man with equally dark hair worn in a ponytail that dripped down to the middle of his back. They stared back. Clive licked his lips. "Scribe, precious, aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?"

"Clive, these are my friends Alex and Lawrence. Alex, Laurey--Clive--the one and only Leather Hairdresser."

"Charmed," purred Clive, shaking hands perhaps a little longer than was strictly necessary. Neither Laurey nor Alex seemed to be in a hurry to stop him. "You both have the most beautiful hair. May I?" Before anyone was really aware of what was going on, Clive had Laurey's ponytail undone, and he had a hand buried wrist deep in each of the young men's hair, rummaging sensuously, his eyes half-closed.

Scribe said, "Purely professional interest?"

"Certainly not, dear." He gripped and gave each head a gentle, slow shake.

Lawrence whispered, "Alex, I certainly hope you were serious about what we could have for our anniversery, because I think I just found what I want."

Scribe grinned. "Betcha wish you had your special station back at Attitudes."

"Pet, is there one of those delightful little shops in the lobby that provides ammenities like, say, shampoo, conditioner, and perhaps even scissors?"

"Come to think of it, I believe there is."

"Does your room have a bathroom, and a lock on the door?"

"Yes."

"I can make do."

"Oo, crap. I don't have my room key. It kinda got lost in that interdimensional shuffle. It may take a little while to get another one."

Alex said, "Scribe, you could tell them at the desk, and check out the convention. They should have arrangements done by the time you're ready to go to bed. If they haven't, there's a fold out couch in our room."

"Shouldn't be a problem. My luggage should still be in there, so that should be proof enough." She slapped her forehead. "Poot! I need to call my Mom. She'll have my head if I don't."

"Oh, here!" Lawrence pulled a calling card out of his pocket. "My treat!"

"Terrific. What's the PIN number?"

Lawrence blushed, flicking his eyes at Clive, "Um, 6969."

Clive smiled gently. "I know I'm going to like it here. I'll see you later, pet." He herded the two young men toward the upper levels.

Scribe found a pay phone. There was a tap on her shoulder, and a voice said, "Excuse me, Miss Scribe. I was wondering if I might..."

"Later, Steve." She giggled. "I have to phone home." She dialed. "Hello, Mom? Don't rent out my room, I... Mom. Mom. Mom. Don't cry, Mom, you'll get me started. Yes, ma'am, I know you were worried, but believe me, I didn't have time to call and ask permission. What? Yes, the man who fell on top of me is a friend. Yes, a good friend. How good? Very good. No, I don't think that's likely. It just isn't. He's very fond of me, but there's no chance of us getting married. Well, you'll just have to trust me on this. I know." Her expression softened. "I love you, too, Mom. It's good to be home."

Chapter 58: Full Circle: Back on the Bus, Girlfriend

"Sh."

"But Scribe, I have to have a number where I can reach you for..."

*"Shhhhhhh!"*

The chorus of hisses from the surrounding darkness made it sound like a clowder of very pissed off Siamese cats was fighting with an equally pissed slither of snakes. The man in the baseball cap and glasses combed nervously at his salt-and-pepper beard. I sighed, got up, took his hand, and dragged him out of the large, dark room into the well lit hotel lobby. The man blinked in the lights, muttering, "Damn, they were touchy."

I glared at him impatiently. "Steven, you were talking during SPIDER BABY! Hello? Classic schlock horror? Lon Chaney, Jr.'s last film? You're lucky they didn't gag you with JuuJuubees and cram a popcorn box over your head." I pointed back toward the darkened room. "Those are fans in there! You remember fans, right? You've had dealings with them?"

"I... uh..."

"It's been too long since you've been to a grass roots level convention, bub."

"I just need a phone number where I can reach you or your secretary for... Why are you laughing?"

*sniff* "I'm sorry. Secretary--hooooo boy. Please don't say that in front of anyone I know--I'd never live it down. I'm in the book. Well, my Mom is in the book--I don't have my own phone." Spielberg was giving me a shocked stare. "Don't look at me like that. There are some of us who find telephone access to be less necessary for survival than oxygen."

Spielberg sighed. "All right. I'll get in touch with you in the next couple of days so we can set up a conference about this project. You ought to get some sort of representation before then. I'd recommend an agent and a lawyer."

I grunted. "And I thought I'd left all this nonsense behind when I got home. Oh, well. Hopefully my native fellows have a shorter attention span. Better make it three or four days. I'll start sorting through the contacts that started piling up about ten minutes after that newscast."

"Are there many?" Speilberg asked curiously.

"Looked like a small town phonebook the last time they tried to hand them to me."

"Be careful. There are a lot of scam artists out there."

"Don't worry about me." I smiled at Clive as he sauntered over from the elevators. "I'll have my own, personal bullshit detector with me at all times."

Clive greeted me with a peck on the cheek. "Precious, have you been up All night?"

"The marathon ran all night." I raised an eyebrow. "Weren't YOU up all night?"

"Sweetie," he drawled, "Not even Superman is capable of that. We dozed occasionally. I had the loveliest assortment of body parts to use as pillows."

"Speaking of, where are Laury and Alex?"

"Sleeping like the lambs that they are." Clive was eyeing Spielberg. "Why do I have the feeling that you have an absolute mess under that cap?"

Scribe gave Spielberg a little push. "Go. Go while you can." Steven went. "Clive, are they going to recover?"

"Yes, darling, but I've spoiled them for all others. Who was that?"

"Steven Spielberg. It wouldn't mean anything to you--it's a dimensional thing. Suffice it to say that he's staggeringly rich, very powerful, and considered a genius by many, many people."

"So is Lex Luthor."

"Mm, I don't think Steven is quite that ruthless. Anyway, he wants to make a movie of my story, with an option for two or three sequels."

"Lord knows enough has happened to you, sweetie. Tell me, do they have anyone who's devastatingly sexy enough to portray me?"

"No one could live up to you, Clive."

"Naturally."

"But they don't know you like I do, so I suppose they'd try. If I do it, I'm gonna demand cast approval, and if they suggest someone under thrity-five for me, I'm walking out. If they suggest someone under a size fourteen, I'm raising my price, and if they suggest Julia Roberts, I'm smacking someone."

"That's my lamb. Is this shindig going to last much longer, dear?"

"Well, most of the 'good stuff' is already done. It looks like after this, I'll be able to afford to travel to go to conventions, so I suppose I could give the rest of the activities a miss." I smiled at Clive. "Are you ready to meet my mother, Clive?"

He smiled back. "In my long list of experiences, no one has ever considered me someone to take home to Mother. I'm looking forward to it."

It didn't take long to get packed, since I hadn't really UN-packed. We stopped by Alex and Laury's room and woke them long enough to say good-bye. I extracted a promise to meet up the next weekend at our favorite karaoke bar. "It isn't Lavender's Green," I told Clive, "but it's fun, and since I'm not quite so notorious there, we may actually get a chance to relax a little. Um, that is if it isn't 'Disco Night'. It gets pretty rowdy with the Village People Lookalike contests."

We took a taxi to the bus station. Normally I would have been a little nervous about having to wait for our bus there, considering the sort of 'individuals' who hung around. With Clive beside me, though, arms crossed and giving a frosty eye to anyone who seemed inclined to show an undue interest, it was a lot less tense.

We chose seats near the back of the bus, and I allowed Clive to have the window seat only after he told me that the only way I was getting it was by sitting on his lap. I received a few interested looks from the other passengers as they boarded, but they all ascribed to the common sense rule of 'eye contact equals invitation to become bosom pals', and left us in peace.

As we left the station, Clive examined the towering buildings on either side, nodding. "Not bad, but no match for Metropolis. And you say you live in a small town? I haven't been in one of those for awhile."

"I said I lived in a one miniature Shetland pony town. It makes wide spots in the road look urban. It consists of flea markets, churches, and feed stores." *pause* "Oh, and video rental stores."

"Videos?"

"They allow adult material in our neighborhood. Trust me--you'll like it."

A (sadly) familiar voice floated over the seat from behind us. "Shouldn't watch them. The Mafia and the Communists slip sublingual messages in 'em to control your mind."

Clive raised an eyebrow at me. "I'll have to hold them under my tongue to enjoy them? I can think of a few body parts that might be pleasant with, but..."

"Subliminal. Clive, whatever you do, don't look around," I hissed.

"Of course that's only in them poor-no-gray-fees. Now, the Moonies and Hairy-Kreskins use the martial arts movies. The Satanists and the Moor-mans use the horror movies." Clive was starting to twitch. I patted his arm. "The Lez-beans use the chic flicks to set up unrealistic standards for men, and recruit women. They also encourage women to get uppity, and abandon their God given place as homemakers, babymakers, and man pleasers, and..."

I lost it.

I turned, kneeling up in the seat, and clutching the back of the cushions. I glared back at--yes, it was the same scrawny, beady-eyed fruit loop who'd declared the end of the world on my first trip. When he saw me, his teeny, piggy eyes widened to almost normal size. I growled, "If you don't shut up I'm going to have the aliens up the mind control ray bombardment till even aluminum foil can't deflect it. I'll have my New World Order contacts increase the flouride in your water till you glow in the dark. I'll slip information in fortune cookies all over the world giving your address to the Tongs, and I'll set up a web site specifically to tell the women of the world that you're hung like a hamster and have the staying power of a May fly and the breath of a water buffalo."

He squeaked once, stuffed a finger in the ear that didn't have the earphone button plugged into it, closed his eyes, and clamped his mouth shut. I sat back down, and Clive gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Tongue Fu--verbal martial arts," he murmured. "The ability to cut a man's knees out from under him with a few well placed words."

"I occasionally channel my inner bitch. It comes in handy."

The rest of the ride was peaceful enough.

Mom was waiting at the Beumont bus station when we arrived. Clive got off first and, ever the gentleman, gave me his hand to help me descend. I thought Mom was going to have an orgasm at this show of old fashioned courtesy.

After she finished trying to squeeze the life out of me, I introduced them. We went into the coffee shop, and I gave her a very brief (and very editted) version of what had happened. I didn't even have to prompt her to invite Clive to stay with us. She bubbled that we had a nice spare room, next to mine, that he could use. He waited till her back was turned to roll his eyes. I shrugged, and whispered, "About two steps from my room."

Luckily, the phone was in Mom's name (as I'd told Speilberg), so we had a couple of days of peace before the media jackels found me. Clive and Mom got well acquainted. (No, not that well acquainted! *Squick!* I mean, I know Mom isn't dead yet, but please, give my sensibilities a break.)

Spielberg had a rough draft of the deal he was proposing messengered over. (The poor delivery man spent an hour roaming in the wilderness, trying to find the house. If he hadn't stumbled on the overpass in front of our yard, he'd still be looking) Clive was sitting on the couch, reading it, a pair of rimless glasses perched on his nose. He glanced up and caught my eye. "Not a word."

"I was just wondering where the hell they came from."

"Inner vest pocket, and if you tell anyone I'll tan your bottom well enough to make another vest out of your hide."

"Shutting up now." I sat next to him, and sighed happily. "It's good to be home. I did enjoy my trip to the other dimension, but it'll be nice to not be confronted by the physical incarnation of fictional characters for awhile."

Clive hummed. "I'm just glad that we managed to locate Mixedpickles and, er, negotiate his co-operation. You might still be in my home territory if we hadn't."

I nodded agreement. There was a knock on the door. I started to get up, and Mom came out of the kitchen. "Sit, dear. I'll get it."

I snuggled against Clive's side, and he looped an arm over my shoulder. I could hear Mom talking to someone on the front porch, but I couldn't hear what was being said. She came back in, looking a little bewildered. "Scribe, hon, there are some people here from the FBI who want to talk to you."

I sat up. "What the hell? I can't believe that the government would be interested enough to send someone. They usually need proof of something in triplicate, video taped, notarized, and attested to by several dozen upstanding citizens."

Mom shrugged. "They look like very nice people." Her voice dropped. "You ought to see them, dear. I think the man is single, and he looks very nice, even if he does need to comb his hair."

"What the hell. Show 'em in."

She did. I stared. The short red-headed woman said, "Miss Scribe Mozell? We're..."

"You wouldn't happen to be Gillian Anderson and David Duchovney, would you?" They blinked. She said, "Who?"

The tall, hazel-eyed man with the thick, messy sable brown hair (which Clive was eyeing lustfully) said, "No. We're..."

I pointed. "Fox Mulder, and Dana Scully?" They exchanged looks. "And you're here to look into my late adventure for a special section of the FBI called the X Files?"

Dana said, "Did someone advise you that we were coming?"

I let my head drop back on the sofa. "Clive, I guess I'm going back with you when Kal-el brings you home, and then we're going back, finding Mixedpickles, and I'm going to give that theory that he can't fly on his home turf a practical test."

He tore his eyes away from Mulder to look at me, understanding lighting in his eyes. "You mean...?"

I nodded resignedly, "I think I'll make it the next time, but till then--same song, second verse..."