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Title: The Raiders Chronicles – Tomb of the Vampire Prince - Chapter Three
Author: Katharyn Rosser
Feedback: Absolutely, yes please. That’s why I write for this place, to engage in the discussion about the story.
Spoiler warning: Nope. All new. All original. Set in a universe where Willow Rosenberg takes the place of Indiana Jones. What can I spoil?
Distribution: This story was written for Pens. Pens is its home. No archiving off Different Coloured Pens and the Kitten Board please. No conversion to eBook or other formats please. Enjoy it here.
Summary: Getting to the actual point and the next action beat… What do you mean you thought there’d be no action?
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the copyrights or anything else associated with BTVS or Indiana Jones. All rights lie with the production company, writers etc. I am making no money from this series of stories however all original characters and situations remain my property. There may be occasional use of ‘classic lines’ from the source series/movies or others for which full credit is given to the original writers.
Rating: Occasional, tasteful, adult situations and contextual bad language.
Couples: Tara and Willow forever. 100% FAQ compliant, 100% of the time. Look it up if you don’t know what that means.
Text convention: Use of italics denotes either special emphasis if used for a single or a few words in a sentence OR first person thoughts if used for a whole sentence.
Physics: I’ll say it here… It’s Movie Physics, people. Someone Willow’s size and weight can punch out big, big guys… If you don’t like it, don’t read it. (But please read it)
Notes: This part was originally twice as long, extending right through the next chapter but then that meant it was just too weighty so… I’ve split it. But while the last part ending on Willow’s perving, this one will get to the punchline. So to speak.
Thanks to: All those of you who started feeding back in the thread right from the first part. Always nice to feel that there’s a readership out there. I think the one thing that would stop me writing and putting these stories up would be feeling no one was there. That’s why Pens is special, it’s not one of those ‘dead’ places people post stories. It’s very much alive and very supportive here.
Heroes and villains: Just a quick note on this. I’m using Nazi’s and anonymous goons in these stories for the most part. So far so good, you all know I’m not sticking up for Nazi’s at all, but I make a distinction between them and regular Germans of the time. Also though, I make no apology for the fact that our first ‘bad guy’ (or bad girl) is unashamedly queer herself. We have lesbian heroes and we have at least one lesbian ‘villain’. I’m not playing to or avoiding cliché. You know I’m going to have Tara and Willow in love and together. Everything else after that is story. In fact… I’m going to have more ‘neutral’ and ‘good’ lesbians in these few parts than you can shake a stick at. So I want a pass on the ‘bad’ ones. Of more concern is the likelihood of the sheer number of queer women I put in these stories!
Watching Tara retreat – which seemed to avoid dodging the over-exuberant grasp of too many women who’d already had a little too much to drink – was in no way a bad thing. So she was just going to get on with her ‘job’.
It was in no way mundane and it probably helped her fit right in. One woman, a little older than either of them, caught her eye and raised her glass in salute to the fact she’d had that conversation with ‘the waitress’ or whatever Tara was.
Or that she was staring at her retreating butt. She nodded. It seemed worth acknowledging.
Have I ever watched Tara walk in heels before?
Definitely not dressed like that.
Of course, to the women here, the unattainable was ever so much more alluring than the freely available.
Which was good. That Tara was unavailable.
Here. Of all places.
That made her feel… good. And she liked to think that – if they knew she could go home to bed with the best butt in the place – there might be a good natured cheer.
Of course Tara would never forgive her if she heard such a cheer so… Maybe that wasn’t something to brag about.
And of course, she wasn’t supposed to know ‘Sarah’ anyway.
“Doctor Rosenberg?”
It was the woman – of course it was because she hadn’t seen a man in this entire place to this point – but more importantly it was the same German woman who’d snapped at Tara at the entrance.
How to make a bad impression. If one had been necessary…
She might’ve been attractive if she hadn’t been quite so…
Between an unfortunate tendency to associate Germans with the bad guys – not something she’d worried about prior to the changes in that country since 1933 – and the fact that the woman had been nasty to Tara… Yeah, first impressions…
I don’t like you.
“If you’ll please come with me?” the woman – Ilse, Tara had called her – gestured towards a stairway. She was guessing it led up to a private box. She’d noted there were several of them dotted the periphery of the large open space that might once have been considered a ball room but was now - pretty much by definition - ball-less.
Or almost…
Because here and there… there were a very few men back in the shadows. More like security than voyeurs, but what? They couldn’t find enough burly women to do the job?
The evidence right before her eyes said otherwise.
“Thank you. Ilse isn’t it?”
The other woman inclined her head a little, as if pleased to be recognised or remembered.
I remember all sorts of stuff, honey. Like how you spoke to my girl.
Even if you didn’t know she was my girl at the time, we’re still going to have a reckoning for that one. I just know it.
“Is this – It looks like an old ball room – no, more like an opera house?” But why would anyone build one practically underground? The ornately decorated roof – yeah, that had a theme that wasn’t exactly religious – might actually be above street level. But the rest certainly wasn’t.
“Of a sort.”
She’d just have to accept that since it seemed like the only answer she was going to get. It was only curiosity anyway. For now she didn’t have a need to wonder about the location so many women-loving-women were having a good time in. She could only marvel that they’d all found the place.
Or that it existed at all.
“So, are you the one who asked me here?”
“No, that would be my employer,” Ilse replied. “Or rather, she was keen to have a meeting with someone who had… your sort of skills. I identified some likely candidates and you seemed the best qualified.”
“And would one of those qualifications be breasts?” she wondered, guessing at who the other candidate may have been. After all, coincidences seemed increasingly unlikely the more times that they occurred.
Was that why Lehane had been on the boat? Were they bringing her in too? In which case, this wasn’t going to turn out well. As rivals they were deadly. But if she was somehow expected to work with Lehane? That was… No. No.
No.
But then what was Tara doing here too? That didn’t seem like it could be a coincidence either.
More and more unlikely…
She hadn’t even known Tara was in Paris. Let alone right here. And… dressed like that.
“Perhaps one of them,” Ilse admitted. “After all I think a lot of men would feel… disarmed here. Is that the word in English?”
“Perhaps an even better one would be ‘emasculated’.” She looked at the ‘security’ she’d spotted. As if reacting to her notice they’d backed even more into the shadows.
“Hmm, does that mean what I think it does?”
“Probably,” she agreed.
What if that security was there for her?
After all, she knew she did have something of a reputation. Tara will never let me live it down if I find trouble here…
“I like it. It is a good, strong word. I will have to seek out reasons to use it in conversation,” Ilse said as they went up the steps.
Yeah, sister, you look like you’re up for a bit of emasculating.
But before they could delve deeper into the meaning of the word, Ilse showed her out into the private box at the top of the stairway.
Within it sat a young woman – again, her gender no surprise in the circumstances. But this time a blonde, though not in a Nordic way. This was peroxide unless she missed her guess (and she did have some experience in these things). The tone of her skin and – when she turned – her eyes, didn’t quite match that of her hair. Unless, perhaps she’d been out in the sun a little too long.
She was young too. Younger than she’d have expected – but she had nothing to base that on. It just felt like a young woman would be… done on the floor below. Not watching from on high.
Or perhaps that was her usual.
Perhaps she wasn’t into women at all. It took all sorts to make the world go around. Not every woman could be a lesbian. Someone had to give birth to the next generation – that was basic science.
“Doctor Rosenberg, may I introduce Catherine Traithe, the owner of the establishment. Catherine, this is Doctor Willow Rosenberg. She is the expert that we spoke about.”
“A pleasure,” Willow said, offering to shake hands but rather being offered one to kiss. And – never one to ignore prevailing social convention – she did just that.
Without even wondering where it had been.
Until after. Right…
Aside from the slight imperfection of her hair colour, this was a clearly beautiful woman in a room filled every sort of woman in the world. You’d find some definition of beauty that suited your tastes here – indeed her definition of it was walking around with her breasts and butt on rather too much display – but even amongst all of those women, there were certain common standards.
All in all, you’d have to be a fool or a homosexual man not to find Catherine Traithe beautiful.
And she was neither of those things. So… Yes. She did. And so would Tara. So she didn’t have to feel bad about that.
“I have heard a lot about you, Doctor Rosenberg,” Catherine said. “Won’t you please take a seat?”
Not German either. The name was indistinct, it could come from anywhere, but the accent was French via nowhere else. Parisian wealth to be precise. She’d have known it anywhere. Didn’t sound like Traithe had even lived anywhere else for log enough to pick up a hint of anything else.
“Thank you, Ms Traithe.”
“Catherine, please. I’ve paid a lot of money to bring you here; I think we can do away with formalities.”
She smiled her most charming smile and sat down. It was true that her expenses in coming here, including a first class cabin on the ship she’d abandoned close to the coast, had been paid for. The ruined tuxedo, not so much.
“You certainly did. Thank you. First class was a nice touch.”
“It was nothing. I admire your suit.”
She smiled. “I had a better one, but… it got soaked in seawater. Long story, not worth telling.”
“I’m sure. Do you like my club?”
“It’s… unique. And more than lives up to its reputation. I’d never have thought it could be so profitable?” she wondered.
Where does your money come from?
“You’d be surprised how much money it does make, but principally because my family has owned this space since it was built. There are very few costs outside of the obvious and it’s fulfilling, in its own way.”
“Oh?”
“Giving people – women – one place for themselves. To be themselves. They come from all over the world.”
“And the word has spread just as far.”
‘Themselves’ rather than ‘ourselves’. And it was one, quite specific, subset of women that were being served by this place. Not women in general, many of whom would run fifteen miles in the rain rather than stay here.
Sad but true. That was just how some women reacted.
“I can see that.”
“There’s so much for the rest of us…” Catherine shook her head, dismissing some thought that had come to mind.
“You’re not…”
“Sapphic? Good gracious, no.”
“But…” This whole place? Who did that if it wasn’t at least partly for themselves?
“My late grandmother was in love with a woman during the latter half of her life,” Catherine explained. “She created and built this place, turned it from a dead concert hall, hidden away for no reason, into a place of joy.”
“And no little lust.”
“Doesn’t lust give you joy?” Ilse asked from behind her.
“Some people,” Willow hedged by not really answering. Considering that what really gave her joy was wandering around, serving drinks in a uniform she hoped to find all kinds of joyful at a later date.
But waxing lyrical about the power of love seemed like it would be off the chosen message at the moment.
“Perhaps you would excuse us, Ilse?” Catherine asked, perhaps detecting the differences between them. Differences born of the fact that she wasn’t sure Ilse hadn’t been making a pass at her just then.
“Of course.” Though the words said the German woman was happy to oblige, the tone of voice said that she felt it would be a mistake.
Now that she had the owner to herself though, she intended to make good use of the opportunity. “Tell me, Catherine, you know my reputation or I wouldn’t be here. So please tell me that’s not a Nazi you have working for you?”
“‘Working for me’ would be an interesting way of phrasing it. You might better say something else…” Even though Ilse had – apparently – retreated, Catherine kept her voice low. Low as could be heard in this place anyway.
Willow raised her eyebrows. She hadn’t expected that. She’d assumed they were on the same page. “You’re in trouble?”
Catherine looked around, shook her head. They were being overheard? Listened to?
“But is she a Nazi?”
“Would you condemn every German for the opinions of their leader?”
“I’d condemn every German who voted for him, yes,” Willow said. “Certainly every one that joined the party. I have friends who were driven out of their own country by those thugs.”
Not to mention all the things that had happened in other countries where Hitler was making grabs for supernatural power of some kind.
Informed minds insisted he was a ‘nut’ for it.
“Ilse, unlike me, is here because it suits her preferences,” Catherine explained. “There are any number of German born women down there enjoying themselves. Probably more than any other nationality, except my countrywomen. Whatever the Nazi’s think about the Jews and the Romany, I assure you their vitriol against those who love their own sex is just as strong.”
It made sense, though she hadn’t heard it herself. Then again, it wasn’t the kind of thing that made the news, was it? Unlike the exodus of various racial and ethnic groups, fighting to get out of a country that no longer tolerated their presence but unable to enter the countries that should’ve been keen to take them.
At least not in any numbers. It was an international scandal, but never seemed to be reported as such. If the Nazi’s were guilty of purging Germany, plenty of others were guilty of not helping with the fallout.
Including her own government.
The very one Tara Maclay was here to fight for and represent. At least they were doing something in other ways though. Whatever Tara was up to…
“I doubt that everything that happens here is rooted in love,” Willow observed, looking out over the room.
“True, but love may follow. For some.”
“You make it sound almost noble.” She looked back at the woman who – apparently – needed her help. Perhaps she ought not to be judging just yet. Not until she knew more.
“I – we do not discriminate, the costs are paid for by our members of means and they enjoy the company of those of lesser means. It lends itself to… variety.”
Ah… so the rich got what they wanted and those not so well off… well, they got… what they wanted too. All very altruistic and... It still made her a little uncomfortable.
The whole place did.
Whatever this is, it’s bigger than simple business if Tara’s here.
And that means I need to play nice.
“I can imagine, but let’s talk about why I’m here.”
---------------
Even after three, consecutive nights of working here, Tara was still sometimes shocked by some of the things people would get up to with each other in the middle of a crowd.
Or at least on the periphery of it.
Wherever they were placed though, the crowd might be the thing. Fear and panic – as well as grim determination – could be reinforced by the presence of others. She’d seen it happen.
So why not debauchery?
If Daddy could see me now…
He’d whup my backside so hard. But mostly because of what I’m wearing – not where I am
Absently - while balancing a tray on one hand and avoiding a couple who laughed and giggled right into her path - she tried to adjust the too small underwear she’d been given to pass as a uniform.
No, Daddy wouldn’t have been happy with her right now. Not happy at all. His idea of a uniform was dress blues, though he’d been proud enough when she joined the navy.
And though Gunnery Sergeant Maclay probably had some idea that she wasn’t a typist, he really didn’t know the things she did for her country so that Marines like him – hopefully – wouldn’t have to storm the beaches of France, Italy or Japan.
At this very moment, it was tough to imagine he’d have approved of what she was doing – or wearing - now.
Not right now.
And for more than just the ‘uniform’ or even the surroundings. He wouldn’t have liked her being in this place no matter what combination of people it was filled with. Whatever else you might say about him – and people had said plenty - he’d never had a problem with her preferences.
This place was beyond preferences, but that wasn’t why he’d have had a problem. He’d have considered that she was in danger… Exposed in too many ways.
Her ‘team’ on this mission was vanishingly small and inexperienced. Just her and one other, young, woman as back up. Operative word ‘young.’
But what else was she supposed to have done? There might as well have been a sign up. ‘You don’t have to be queer to work here, but it helps’.
Yes, it definitely helped. Seriously… bring most of the heterosexual women she knew from the embassy down here and they’d stand there agog.
As a lesbian it was difficult not to do the same thing.
In their whole lives, most of them wouldn’t have even thought about some of the things that would’ve been happening around them. So, no. You didn’t have to be a lesbian but it really would have helped.
For obvious reasons too many people didn’t feel able to be open about their preferences, certainly not for anything official. And definitely not if it might also be dangerous. That had shrunk the pool of candidates dramatically.
What you did have to be – of course - was a woman of an appropriate age. And the younger, at least a little attractive women she thought she could rely on from the Paris embassy – rely on not to freak out at what happened here every night, let alone if the chips were down – brought them down to a choice of precisely one.
Daddy probably wouldn’t ever have termed the girl as ‘back up.’
Dottie, the back up in question, was pretending to be an American student in Paris, needing some extra money. There was an implied suggestion that maybe she wouldn’t have minded more than just money, which seemed to be a good way to get through the interview here. It wasn’t required of her but she’d come up with herself and run with it.
She’d gotten the job too so fair play to her.
And Dottie – in reality a fairly new addition to the embassy secretarial pool – clearly loved it here. She couldn’t stop talking about it, which was a worry, and you could see from the way her eyes played over the crowd… she was in some sort of heaven. How long that might last, she had no idea but… it did concern her a little.
But she let it slide, because she knew exactly who Dottie was.
Small town girl from the mid-west? Never been overseas until this trip? Oh, and resolutely queer in that small town, despite the fact she might’ve been the only one who’d ever admit it? Yes, she could see the attraction both of Paris and a place like this.
And ordinarily, she’d have passed on someone who was that easily sucked into the cover that they were maintaining. It was good for the cover itself, but would prove troublesome later.
Of course, she hadn’t been left with much of a choice now, had she? This was one place she didn’t want to be isolated…
So Dottie it was.
“Keep everything to hand,” she said, bending to lean into the hatch behind which Dottie kept all the coats and bags – including the overnight variety Willow had arrived with – for the patrons. Yes, she was the coat check girl and that meant she got to see everything…
It also meant she had great places to hide their stuff, including all sorts of weapons.
“Why?”
“Things are about to get rough,” Tara said, regretting it a little. But she knew it was beyond just ‘likely’. When Rosenberg was around, it was practically guaranteed. “Be careful, stay in here unless I call for you or I come and get you. You’ll be safe here.”
“How – how do you know? I mean – that it’ll get rough?” Dottie asked her chest. Tara straightened up and tried to adjust the bust. But it really didn’t help.
And she’d been pushing her butt out with an older lady just behind her… watching with a speculative eye. Damn this thing…
But she had bigger problems. They both did.
“Willow Rosenberg’s here,” Tara said. To her that explained it all. There was always trouble when Willow was around. “Get our things together. Just in case. Oh, and that bag the red-head had with her when I came in.”
“Okay, Co – Sarah, sure. I’ll just keep them – here, ready. Until you come, or I hear something”
Dottie had the good sense to sound just a little worried.
“Stay here,” Tara insisted. “Right?”
“Okay.”
-----------------------
“With all due respect, Miss Traithe,” Willow said. “If you know my reputation, then you know you don’t need to be asking me all these questions.”
Her more public successes – and some of the impossible to hide failures – had all been trotted out and questioned. Not the ones on behalf of the government, of course, but the rest… And the questions were quite perceptive. More interested in the how and the why than the accomplishment itself – or lack of it.
It all sounded very much like an interview rather than a job offer. And Traithe was playing the part. Whatever she was afraid of – whoever – and what she thought of them… She was hiding it well. Doing the job she’d been given – despite the fact she was supposed to be the employer here.
“I should risk throwing good money after bad?” Catherine asked.
“Of course not, but as you’ve said – there are really only two choices that appear to reflect your requirements and the other… Unless I miss my guess about her, I’d just say she’s unstable and untrustworthy. As likely to sell whatever it is you want than to bring it to you.”
“And would she say the same about you, Doctor Rosenberg?”
Willow considered that for a moment, what would Lehane say about her? “No, if anything she’d probably say I was too reliable.”
“Too trusting perhaps?” It was a recurring theme of the questions so far.
“No, I think you’ll find I have a healthy suspicion about me. Suspicion that keeps me healthy, I mean. Not that I suspect myself - For example - ”
She broke off as Ilse returned to the box, all dark and brooding… power. They met eyes for a moment as Catherine greeted her… whatever she really was. When offering her cheek to be kissed, Ilse lingered over it a little too much for her claim to be ignored or mistaken.
And Catherine didn’t seem exactly happy about it either. Understandably, if what she’d said earlier was true.
Ilse wasn’t Traithe’s employee, for all that she’d been dismissed a little while ago. She was in control. She didn’t know how to be anything but in control. It hadn’t been said but… there it was all the same.
So why would Catherine allow her that control? What did she have on her?
She’s a hostage to something… And that’s not just meant sitting here..
But if Ilse wasn’t someone she fundamentally had to disagree with, like an enemy agent or someone who wished her harm, then she had no business sticking her nose into their domestic affairs.
Whatever they were.
“Ilse, I was just asking Doctor Rosenberg - ”
“Enough,” Ilse said, cutting off all debate, before she softened it. “Enough, Catherine. Please. Doctor Rosenberg will suit our purposes, I suggest we get to the reason that she’s been asked to come here. Before her patience with us is utterly exhausted.”
Which was close to where she’d been going, but then she’d seen how Ilse casually treated Catherine and she found herself sympathetic to the Frenchwoman. Whatever was happening here, she certainly didn’t like it. Domestic or foreign policy, it didn’t matter. She really felt like she should do something for Catherine Traithe.
“Very well, if you’re certain?” Catherine sounded like a woman who wasn’t used to making decisions anymore. Which would fit with the fact it didn’t seem like she did.
“Mademoiselle Lehane won’t be joining us, she declined the invitation. So…”
“I’m the only game in town,” Willow concluded. Why was Lehane not turning up though? What did she know? What was she doing instead?
Or who?
“Precisely.”
“I should tell you to take a running jump just for talking to her.” And to boost my fee. Private commissions, along with government work, were all about all that kept her head above the financial water when things went wrong.
And things did go wrong.
“Please understand,” Catherine said. “We need the best person for a difficult task. It would be remiss not to look at the alternatives.”
“As long as they’re female and not exactly heterosexual?” Willow checked. Occasionally being a woman had been a factor, but no one had ever cared enough who she liked to bed to give her work before.
“No, those are not the qualities that attracted us to you,” Ilse replied. “They were merely convenient in this venue. We’d have met any suitable gentlemen somewhere… less distracting.”
While the distraction was intended in my case, was it?
“Your ability to get us what we want is what we require and in that you and Mademoiselle Lehane are almost unrivalled. Neither of you look at archaeology as simply digging up old bones and using fine brushes.”
Yes, the last time I did some fine brushwork it was across Tara’s milky skin -
Damn! This place is distracting!
“We?”
“Catherine will be financing the expedition,” Ilse said, running a finger-tip around the seated woman’s collar bone. It wasn’t just possessive, like one woman warning off a like-minded rival. No, this was… controlling. Aimed at Catherine herself, rather than the potential rival.
She could almost see the shiver run through Traithe and wasn’t convinced it was much to do with desire.
“Good,” Willow said evenly. “Finance is important to any successful venture.”
“But she is not the only interested party,” Ilse finished.
That would’ve been her next question. One of them anyway. Unfortunately it seemed unlikely she was going to get a better answer than that and the vibe had changed. Distinctly… She was no longer negotiating. She was being told what to do.
And obviously that didn’t sit well with her. As assumption had been made that she’d say ‘yes’. Something she hadn’t done. “And what is it you want?”
“An icon,” Catherine said, as if eager to get back in the conversation. It earned her a gentle pat on the shoulder and she seemed relieved by it. More like… a pet?
“A religious icon?”
“Is there another kind?” Ilse asked.
“Yes, actually. Many different traditions have different definitions of what they consider to be an ‘icon’. But I’m hardly an expert – there are several more qualified people, some of them right here in Paris.”
Catherine shook her head, using the gesture to check with Ilse that she could speak up. The other woman seemed to allow it. “It’s not the providence of the item we need you for, but rather the recovery. It’s in an isolated location and…” She hunted for the word.
“Protected,” Ilse supplied.
“Ah.”
“We would be prepared to fund all expenses, pay you for your time and - knowing your support for the institution of learning - to make a significant donation to the museum of your choice where – eventually – you can keep the icon itself,” Ilse said, before her eyes fixed on something on the floor below them. They narrowed and she excused herself again.
“Oh? Problem?” Willow wondered, taking a look. Apparently things got out of hand even here and Ilse was the solution. “Shame.”
She turned to Catherine as soon as she was sure the other woman was gone and couldn’t see them. Whether they were being overheard or not, she couldn’t not ask the question.
“You don’t look happy about her or this,” she said. “Tell me I’m wrong?”
Catherine looked furtive, even like she might deny it. But… then she made a decision and shook her head. “You’re not – you’re not wrong.”
“She has something on you?”
“I have a child, a little boy – I can’t - ”
“You need help.”
“What I need is for you to do what she asks,” Catherine said. “Please. Just agree.”
“Call the Gendarmerie,” Willow suggested.
“I’m not the only one – all of us, you don’t understand. You can’t. This place…”
“Sure I can. Call the police. Whoever she is - ”
“They can’t help, Doctor Rosenberg. They can’t. Not with - ”
Traithe fell to silence as Ilse returned. It was an obviously suspicious silence and Willow just itched to punch her in the jaw, letting the chips fall where they may. But she didn’t know what was going on. If there was a child involved, other people who might get hurt…
And this wasn’t the time for Americans to going punching Germans in the jaw. It might’ve become the first – cheap – shot of a global war. Things were that tense…
Tara Maclay was here too. To start something without even understanding what it was? Tara would be ticked. Majorly ticked.
“What’s going on, Catherine?” Ilse asked.
“N-nothing.”
“Don’t worry,” Willow said. “I’m not hitting on your girlfriend.”
“No,” Ilse said. “You’re doing something much more dangerous than that.”
She exhaled, not having the patience for deception – or the face for it. I just suck at lying. It looked like she was going to get her wish. Global war be damned. “You’re really going to make me do this, aren’t you?”
Ilse smiled. She knew. She understood what the suspicions were. Ilse was practically daring her.
Fair enough. There weren’t many women who expected to be punched in the jaw by another woman. It was rare for her to need to – but it’d always had the element of surprise behind it.
Catherine screamed at her as she threw the punch.
“No!”
*************************
_________________
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If I wanted a little pussy, I've got my own to play with.
Chance in *Chance*
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