Randolph and Kim


Chapter 2




AUTHOR'S NOTE: All of my stories have been written for an exclusively adult audience. They contain descriptions of violence, some of it of a sexual nature. They also include other sexually explicit depictions. They are in no way suitable for minors. Furthermore it is against the law in many parts of the world for this type of material to be read, either by minors or by minors and adults. Please make sure you are not acting contrary to local legislation before reading on and please do not read any further if you find this type of material offensive in any way. This is a work of fiction and any similarity between the characters and events depicted and any people/events in real-life, past or present, is purely co-incidence. A number of the characters and events portrayed are inspired by, or based upon, existing works of fiction. Although I have made every effort to keep plagiarism to a minimum, I must acknowledge a debt of thanks to the many artists and writers who have shared their talents with the public. I've released my stories to the public domain to make sure that as many people as possible who share my interest in this type of fiction can enjoy them. Please feel free to re-distribute them by whatever means you like, provided you respect the following points: (1) The stories will be re-distributed exactly as they are - unchanged and unedited. (2) No other person will claim authorship of any of these stories or any part of them. (3) The stories will not be distributed for profit, either on their own or as part of a group of other works. Lastly, thank you for your interest in this story. I hope you enjoy it!



The calendar on the kitchen wall displays the month of June in the year 2005. The 5th – that’s today - is ringed in thick red marker pen, but there are no other markings. Randolph doesn’t need any. He’s known the significance of that date for nearly forty years. It’s the day, according to his calculations, that his Sherman crystal will reach energy saturation point. In his garage, the transfer ray device is complete, waiting for the moment for which it has been built. Made from parts stolen from televisions, microwave ovens and other bits of domestic equipment, it doesn’t look like a device that could change the world.

Randolph is outside of his house, puffing and sweating as he awkwardly tries to climb the ladder he’s rested against the side of the building. He remembers how easy it was to get up there when he first installed the crystal on his roof. Now, he is an old man and the physical effort is challenging. But the prize is almost in his reach now. The weather-vane has rusted over the decades and it’s hard work to remove it. He smiles to himself through the struggle as he thinks of how easy such physical tasks will become once he completes the energy transfer.

The crystal is hot. Too hot for him to touch with his unprotected fingers and he has to extract a handkerchief from his pocket, fold it in half and use that to handle the rock. Even so, it is beginning to burn his fingers. He hurries down from the roof, but he can’t climb down the ladder with one hand, so he has to drop the hot crystal into his pocket and hope that it isn’t so hot that it burns the fabric during his decent. On the way down, he slips twice, once almost falling, but clings on, determined to complete his life’s work. He pauses for only a few seconds to catch his breath when he gets to the ground and doesn’t waste any time removing the ladder, so keen is he to get to his garage.

Once there, he places the hot Sherman crystal into his bizarre ray generator. He’s designed the thing to be a tight fit, so that the crystal will be properly held in place when he activates the beam, but it’s a test of his remaining strength to insert it. For a minute he struggles, sweat soaking his forehead. He wipes it off with the still-warm handkerchief. Finally, he succeeds; the rock is properly in place. He switches on the machine and a low hum fills the garage. A small green light labelled “Defrost” – stolen from a freezer he once repaired – illuminates telling him that the ray is ready to be fired.

Randolph goes over to a work-bench and picks up what looks like a television remote-control. A series of scratch marks around the “Volume +” button indicate that that is the one he needs to press to activate the machine once he is standing in front of it. He can’t help laughing. He’s so close to fulfilling his dream now. He begins making his way towards the garage door. The transfer-ray is aligned so that the recipient needs to be standing in front of the centre of the closed door. He’s almost in place when he hears a familiar, hateful, young feminine voice. “…Yeah, it was like, so, gross! He PROMISED he’d take it out of my mouth in time. It’s not like everyone doesn’t know that I don’t swallow. And he’s so well-hung… Not!”

The slut-girl from next door! Randolph realises she’s walking past the front of his house on her way home from school, chatting with one of her so-called friends on her cell-phone. Unable to resist the opportunity to check which obscene outfit she is wearing today, he moves as quickly as his ageing limbs allow, standing on a broken television to peek at her through a small crack in the garage door, the customised remote control unit still in his hand. He has to rise onto his toes to see through the chink in the panel, and it's no easy feat for a man of his age. The old television creaks beneath him as he puts his eye right up to the gap. His reward is a glimpse of the girl's dramatic profile, so whorishly displayed by her clingingly-tight top as she walks by.

Her big chest is moving slightly with each stride. Now that she's passing almost directly in front of him, he can even look down to see the outline of her proud ripe nipple beneath her T-shirt. How can her parents allow her to go out in public dressed so outrageously. Subconsciously, Randolph's hand leaves its post against the garage door where it had been providing extra support and makes its way down the front of his body to begin rubbing his groin through his trousers. Completely distracted now, the rubbing intensifies. But with his body slightly unbalanced, and all his weight concentrated in the tips of his feet, the cheap plastic casing of the ageing television he's standing on can no longer hold out.

A crack appears in the plastic beneath his toes. It spreads instantly, and the casing gives way. The television crumbles under him. With nothing supporting his weight, his feet fall, the left faster than the right, tipping him off balance. The hand that should be bracing his body against the garage door is still on his groin. The other hand is gripping the remote control to his energy transfer device. Instinctively, he flashes out that hand to try and protect himself from injury as he collapses towards the television-wreckage on the ground. The little black rectangular box slips out of his grasp in the confusion, crashing down a half-second before Randolph joins it on the floor. Pain registers in his brain as he impacts with the shattered glass, broken plastic and electronic components. The wind is knocked from him, and he lies in the mess for a full half minute, recovering his breath before gingerly, awkwardly, hauling himself up to his feet.

"That damn slut!" he mutters to himself. Angrily, he thinks "That only happened because she walked past in that ridiculous whore's costume. I'm all bruised down my right side because of her. If she hadn't been passing, I'd have already activated the transfer ray making myself unbruisable... The transfer ray! Oh my god! I dropped the remote! Where the hell is it? It must be near here somewhere.... Down there! Ouch! It hurts when I bend down now, thanks to that little bitch... Got it. Is it OK? Looks alright.... all in one piece, nothing rattling inside when I shake it. It should still be alright. Thank God!"

On the other side of the garage door, Kim - it's been years since she thought of herself as "Kimberley" - is still chatting on her cell-phone, completely oblivious to the farcical scene taking place just yards away from her. If she heard the commotion inside the old man's garage, she did not register it. Her free hand momentarily presses against the front of her T-shirt, scratching, through the thin material, the narrow valley of flawless skin between her two generous, perfectly-shaped breasts. Absorbed in the conversation with her friend, she turns from the pavement on to the path to the front door of her house. The sun in shining and she's thinking about the rays she's going to catch out in the yard once she's changed into something more suitable.

Back in the garage, Randolph is still examining the remote control unit he dropped when, suddenly, he panics. The colour, what little there is of it, drains from his features and he feels unsteady. Every movement makes his fresh bruises ache, but that is not his prime concern anymore. He's realised that there's a chance, a horrible, terrifying chance, that the remote control unit may have fallen onto the "Volume +" button, activating the energy beam. If it did, it would have happened as he fell, out of the line-of-fire of the ray and the power of the Sherman crystal would have been shot into thin air. The radiation is invisible and the machine that generates it is quiet; there would have been no way of detecting that the thing was firing, other than the crystal becoming cool and dull.

Ignoring the pain in his body, Randolph almost runs to the transfer-beam-generator. Without care for his creation, he tears open a side panel to peer inside. He feels sick as he examines the contents. He reaches out, already certain of the worst, and touches the cold crystal within. "No!" he screams, as if by denying the truth he can change it. "No! No! My energy! My power!" He falls to his knees, not caring about the extra discomfort this causes him. His hands cover his eyes as tears start to roll down his wrinkled face. Forty years of work and patience has been lost. Lost because he had to climb precariously on top of an old television to peek at that... that damned whore from next door.

Why did that bitch have to dress so obscenely provocatively? If only her parents had taught her some decency, he would be super-powered now. Instead, he’s nothing but an old man, on the floor of his garage, crying for his cruelly murdered lifelong dream. The slut! Her degenerate ways have cost him everything! Everything... Four decades' worth of the sun's energy, slowly stored in his crystal waiting for the moment that he could transfer that energy into himself. And now, it has all been discharged into... into the garage door and the empty air beyond it. Wasted. The injustice of it all burns. How can his genius and his years of patience be nullified by an ignorant, immoral, indecent teenager?

Meanwhile, up in her room in the house next door, Kim is slowly pulling her tight T-shirt off. It's a little bit of a struggle, especially manoeuvring the stretched material over her large breasts which have developed so spectacularly over the past two years. The cotton and polyester rubs over her barely-matured nipples and the sensation, as ever, is far from unpleasant. The two points of her chest grow hard with the stimulation, swelling as her eyes close for a moment and she lets the feeling suppress all her other thoughts. Ever since she became a woman, she has enjoyed the way her breasts feel, but today - right now, especially - it's particularly lovely. So much so that once she has finally taken her T-shirt off, she can't help cupping her big mounds, which are so much larger than her girlish hands, and caressing them.

A familiar feeling spreads within her from the point where her fingertips are massaging her youthfully firm chest. Surrendering to it, she starts to gently pinch her engorged pink nipples between her thumbs and forefingers. Oh, that feels so good! She normally enjoys it, but this is something else. Mmmmm... She loves her body, the way it is now. The way it makes her feel... So tingly. So warm inside, so... She could spend all day fondling herself, but she collects her thoughts, brings her mind back to the present. She was planning on working on her tan. Her prefect skin is already an alluring golden tone but it wouldn't hurt at all to lie out in the sun for a couple of hours.

She opens her closet and selects a new, rather brief, two-piece bikini. Sliding out of her shorts, wiggling her perfect rear as they fall to her ankles, she stands in front of the wardrobe's full-length mirror as she slips into the swimming costume. She's only worn it once before, in the fitting room at the store, and once she's put it on, she spends a few extra moments admiring the way it looks on her lithe, ripe body. The top half bulges where each of its hardly-adequate cups overflows with full, round teenage breast, a little of each mound visible around the edges of the material, the prominent protrusion of an aroused nipple marking their centres. In the centre of her chest, a deep, stunningly erotic cleavage is dramatically displayed, as sexually inviting as any image plucked from an adolescent boy's hyperactive imagination.

Below the top, an acre of smooth, even skin is on view. Her belly is as flat as her chest is rounded. The flesh is silky and unblemished, spreading like a plain around the small, profound navel just below its middle. Her hips are curved and fully visible as only the tinniest of strings fastens her lower garment together. It's a tiny affair; little more than two pieces of material, one to protect her modesty in front of her body, the other behind. The one in front just about covers her pubic area but leaves her thighs and her hips on show, the other hides the crevice between her buttocks but does not enclose much of either of those two solid, peach-like spherical cheeks. She can't help admiring herself in the mirror for a few more moments before she grabs a bottle of lotion from her dresser and her cell-phone from where she'd dropped it on her bed and makes her way downstairs to the back door.

Out in the yard, she finds that her mother has left a reclining chair open and ready for use on the lawn. She sits down on the edge of it, and places the bottle of lotion and her cell-phone beside her. She's not lying back yet, because she needs to apply her cream first. Taking the bottle, she uses her index finger to flick open the lid, taking care not to damage her recently-manicured bright red nail in the process. She transfers her grip so that she is holding the bottle in her small right fist, its digits with their lustrous nails curled around the cylinder, gently squeezing it, urging the thick white liquid it contains towards the small hole in the lid until a large blob of it squirts out onto the flawless skin of her waiting forearm. She repeats the process several times. First, by switching the hand holding the bottle of lotion, with her other arm. Then she eases some more cream onto each of her thighs in turn.

Her skin is warm out in the Californian sun, and the lotion is much cooler. The contrast feels lovely as she slowly starts to rub the various dribbles of white paste in. She massages her arms and legs as she distributes the cream, her thick, pouty lips parting as she works, her two rows of straight white teeth set slightly apart, her eyes closed to the glare from the sky. When she's satisfied that she's covered every inch of exposed limb, there's still plenty of lotion on her hands. Rather than wasting it by wiping her hands off on the grass beneath her feet, she rubs the excess into her neck and then top of her torso, spreading the sun protection as far as the uncovered upper edges of her breasts. She almost shudders at the sheer delight of the contact. What is it with her breasts this afternoon? When she touches them, they make her feel incredible. She continues the caressing, long after every trace of lotion has been absorbed by her flawless skin.

About five seconds earlier, Randolph entered his bedroom. His bruised legs seemed to carry him there of their own accord. His mind, still in shock, still unable to come to terms with his loss, played no part in picking him up off the garage floor and carrying him upstairs. He moves like a robot; a thing devoid of emotion, mechanically going about its function. His bloodshot eyes with their obvious traces of recent tears are the only clear indication of his membership of the human race. They cast about the familiar room with detached disinterest, resigned perhaps to the knowledge that nothing they might alight upon will ever be enough to replace the dream that has just died. His life is ruined. It has all proved pointless. With hunched shoulders, he drags himself towards the window. Maybe he wants to look out at the sky and curse it for the injustice it has allowed to pass beneath its canopy. But he never gets to do that.

Randolph's gaze is caught by the scene in his neighbours' back yard. The disgusting trollop of a girl is out there. The bitch, whose sluttish dress he tells himself was the real cause of his failure, is lying on a recliner, sunning herself. He notices that she's changed clothes. Gone are that whore's shirt and the disgracefully revealing shorts. Instead, she's wearing a far, far more obscene swimming outfit. It's red. He's not seen this one before. It must be new. How could anyone wear such a thing? There's hardly anything to it. All her disgusting feminine bits are out on display where anyone - anyone in an overlooking window next-door - can see them. She might as well be completely naked. From his vantage point, he can see right into her cleavage. It's so disgusting! And far from being ashamed of her near-nudity, the slut seems quite comfortable. Why she's even touching herself, rubbing the edge of one hand slowly along the underside of one of her breasts.

It's wrong. It's obscene. He stares, shaking his head in sheer disgust at the scene down there. How could anyone touch themselves in public like that? Randolph's right thumb and forefinger pincer the tag on the fly of his trousers and slowly draw it downwards, his eyes not flickering from the disgraceful exhibition, even when he releases the zip and his fingers enter the newly-opened fly and grip his already-stiffening member. His left hand feels around on the window sill. He knows he left his binoculars there last time the little trollop was out in the yard, but he cannot tear his gaze from her even for an instant to search for them. He doesn't have to. He finds them by touch and brings them up to his ageing eyes. Now he can see the disgusting things she's doing much more clearly. He can see the way her large mound moves as she touches it.

It gets worse. She starts to use two hands, pushing her oversized bosoms together, squeezing them in her fingers. Her mouth is open. He can see her teeth. He doesn't realise that his own jaw is also open and that his tongue is now hanging out as his right hand strokes his shaft with increasing insistence.

The binoculars are trembling in his hand. That's partly because of his ageing fingers, but mostly because his whole body is shaking as he masturbates. A drop of saliva falls unnoticed from the tip of his tongue as he sees the girl sliding her fingers under the flimsy cloth of her bikini, exposing more and more of her creamy breast as she does so. Her eyes are closed, and Randolph can tell she's losing herself to her lust. It's unbelievably vile that she can allow that to happen. The movement of his right hand speeds up a little.

Down on the recliner, a low moan is passing through Kim’s rich open lips. She is surrendering to the wonderful sensations in her body caused by her hands as they massage her chest. Her eyes, which have been shut for a minute or so, open and look down at her fingertips as they compress and stroke her large breasts. A small part of her mind is curious to know why the feelings are so intense. After some moments of self-examination, she decides that upper body looks the same as it did yesterday, it just feels different. Not just different, in fact. Better. She rests her head backwards as is just about to close her eyes once more when something moving in the very periphery of her vision catches her attention.

The far side of the lawn lies in shade as two large, leafy trees stand between it and the afternoon sun, casting their shadows. But standing out from the relative darkness over there is a bright patch of light on the grass. It could be caused by a glint of sunlight finding its way between the branches of one of the trees, but that’s unlikely. The area of light is dancing about on the lawn whereas the trees are dead still in the hot, windless afternoon. That brightness must be the result of something else… perhaps the sun glinting off something shiny. Something shiny that’s moving around rapidly. Maybe it’s something behind her. She turns to look and as she does so, the patch of light suddenly disappears. She sees nothing that might have caused it – nothing is moving behind her… except…

What was that? Her eyes flick to where she thought she’d detected some motion. She’s looking at the upper storey of the house next door. Is that… yes. Yes. She’s certain now. The curtain in one of the upstairs rooms is twitching, as if someone has just hurried to hide behind it. Kim realises immediately what has happened. Someone’s been watching her as she played with herself. And there’s only one person in that house. The miserable old man. She’d noticed him checking her out quite a few times since she’d grown up. Now he was taking it one step further. He was perving on her from the window. The filthy old bastard, spying on her. “Well, old man,” she thought, turning away from his house once more, “if that’s want you want, I’ll give you a show you’ll never forget. Let’s see if your heart can take it.”

Randolph eases the curtain about half an inch away from the widow and peers cautiously through the tiny gap. The relief when he sees the girl reclining with her back to him once more is palpable. For a moment, he feared she saw him watching her. But it turns out she’s as stupid as she is degenerate. No match for a man as worldly and intelligent as he. Not only has she failed to spot him, but she hasn’t even found cause to stop her filthy self-manipulation. Her hand is already inside her bikini top once more, already squeezing her breast. And what’s this? Her other hand venturing inside the waist band of her knickers! He grabs the binoculars again. He can see her fingers moving about inside that tiny lower garment. She’s touching her sex! How repulsive. That is not what nature intended. He recommences stroking his penis as he watches and thinks about the wrongness of it all.

Kim is so wrapped up in the way her body feels as she touches it - so much better than when any boy has done it and quite a few boys have in the past eighteen months - that she almost forgets that she has an audience. Whilst her right hand is buried inside her panties, its index finger extended to trace circles around her moistening labia, her left is thrust into her top. Her dainty, feminine fingers aren't long enough to completely encircle her left breast, but it's wonderful the way they're digging into that soft, sensitive flesh.

Remembering that she's being watched, she sensuously digs her fingers under her mound and scoops her entire, heavy breast out of her bikini, lifting it slightly so that her voyeur can get a good view of its round perfection and the glorious, erect nipple that crowns it. She bends her head towards that wonderful breast, and slowly, with practiced erotic expertise, extends her pink tongue. She licks her nipple repeatedly, surprised by the astonishingly gorgeous sensation, taking her time as she traces around it with the tip of her tongue.

Her left hand's index finger has now been joined by two of its colleagues. She's working the three digits more and more energetically around the entrance to her sex. Her fingertips slip on her increasingly wet flesh, sliding over her body and plunging a little inside her. It's like an explosion in her mind, so strong is the wave of pleasure that fills her entire being. Losing track of her surroundings for real this time, she throws her head back, her eyes shut, her breast still bared. Her right hand rolls and pinches her big nipple as her left rhythmically darts a short way in and out of her vagina. It's never, ever, felt this good before.

Randolph has already been pushed over the edge of control. The sight of the girl pornographically licking her ripe mound is more, far more, than he can take without erupting. He has to drop his binoculars to grab a fresh kleenex from the box he keeps handy for these occasions. After shuddering for a few moments in guilty, obscene pleasure, he wipes his penis and his leg, the carpet beneath him and the wall beneath the window where some of his seed has landed. Then, he heads into the bathroom, throwing the soiled tissue disgustedly into the toilet, and flushing it to destroy the evidence of his moral weakness. All that remains is for him to scrub the stench of degenerate sexuality from his body in the shower.

The old man is still rinsing soap off himself under the stream of warm water as Kim, who has forgotten about him entirely, feels her orgasm begin to build. Her fingers are working frenetically now. One set is intensely rubbing the entrance to her sex and teasing the opening of her love-canal with expertly applied movements, the other is squeezing and stroking her breast and her nipple in particular, generating sensations that reverberate within her more forcefully than any she's ever known. She already knows that the release that is approaching may well be the most passionate and explosive of her life, and that its arrival is almost guaranteed now. As long as she can keep stimulating herself as she is now doing. Her eyes are closed, the features of her face slightly contorted as the overwhelming physical sensation takes full control of her body.

In anticipation of the imminent, fabulous, internal eruption, Kim grabs her big breast as tightly as she can, her other hand plunging deep inside her vagina. A burst of sexual pleasure rips through her and, without thinking, she arches her back violently. There's a cracking sound which she barely registers, but then she cannot help but notice as the sun lounger suddenly collapses beneath her, its plastic legs giving way so that the chair, with her on top, falls the eighteen inches to the lawn. The jolt distracts her for a moment. Her eyes open instinctively, and she realises immediately what was happened. She curses the cheapness and poor quality of the garden furniture and that is enough to disturb the rhythm she has spent so much time and energy building towards. The moment has gone. She removes her hands from her intimate zones, rearranging her bikini and then placing her palms flat on the grass either side of her.

Kim sits up. The frustration of her close call with sheer ecstasy is prominent in her mind. She glances down at the wreckage of recliner that is beneath her. If it wasn't for that heap of junk, she'd probably still be riding the waves of a glorious orgasm. She takes a deep breath that makes her large breasts rise even more prominently than usual on her chest and, pouting her gorgeous lips, theatrically sighs. She's shocked to hear a sound like a hurricane. A tree twenty yards in front of her shakes violently for a moment, as if caught in a sudden wind-storm, and every single leaf is torn from its branches and sent flying. A second later, everything is calm again. The noise has ceased and the displaced leaves are slowly floating down to the ground, making a dark green carpet in the far corner of the lawn, some distance behind the now naked tree.

Kim sits for a moment in shock. She's never experienced anything like that before. It's not just the remarkably powerful gust of wind that came from nowhere and disappeared so quickly. It's the fact that the wind coincided with her dramatic sigh. It kind of felt at the time as if the hurricane was actually coming from... from her - through her mouth. Maybe she should - just to put her mind at ease - try blowing, and see if the same thing happens again. But before she can resolve to do that, her cell-phone starts to ring. She glances down and sees it on the broken recliner beside her. She grabs it to answer the call as she has already done twelve times today. But this time, as her fingers close around the handset, something strange happens. The phone crumbles into little pieces in her grip. She doesn't even feel it resisting for a moment. It just seems to dissolve between her fingertips.

Now Kim is completely confused. Something really weird is going on. She brings her right hand up to her face and examines it, turning her fingers slowly in front of her gaze. It looks the same as ever. Carefully, she picks up a piece of phone-debris and squeezes it between her fingertips. She doesn't use much pressure - less in fact than she was using to stimulate her nipple moments before - but the solid lump of plastic shatters instantly into countless smaller chunks. Intrigued, she places her left palm on the handrest of the broken recliner she's still sitting on. It's made of metal, covered in decorative fabric but when she pushes down, she feels the solid frame yielding beneath the fabric. A loud metallic groan confirms her suspicions. She's compressing the thing with her hand! "Oh my god!" she thinks, jumping up onto her feet.

Kim bends down and grips the edge of the recliner with her right hand. As she straightens up, she's stunned by how easily she lifts the entire lounger with that single arm. She's moved this chair many times before, and she knows how heavy it always felt, but now it seems utterly weightless to her. She tries raising it above her head and lowering it a few times, and finds it's completely effortless. She tightens her grip, and hears and feels the metal tubing succumbing to her fingers as if it were wet cardboard. "What the fuck?" she asks herself. Experimentally, she tries to toss the recliner into the air. "Shit!" she exclaims as her careful toss sends the large folding chair rocketing into the sky. Her head is tilted back as she watches, amazed as the thing gets smaller and smaller. Soon, it gets lost in the glare of the sun.

Instinctively, she blinks, and to her amazement, her eyes seem to adjust to the brightness and she can once again make out the tiny dot that is the recliner still rising into the atmosphere. She can tell it's still travelling away from her, despite its remarkable distance from her now. It's about to disappear from her view altogether when she blinks again and suddenly, she can see the thing in detail once more. It's as though her eyes have zoomed in, like a telephoto lens on a camera. When she briefly closes her eyes and reopens them, the view returns to normal and the recliner is almost too small to spot at all. She spends a few seconds alternating between "zoomed in" and normal views of it until she's confident she can control whatever it is. It's awesome.

The chair is finally beginning its descent. She's no idea how high it peaked, but some time has passed since she tossed it upwards. She watches it coming down and glancing between the object and the ground, realises that she can predict where it will land. She can't quite understand how or why, but she's absolutely confident that the broken recliner is going to crash down onto the roof of the house next door. The old pervert's house. She smiles. If she'd been given the choice, that's the place of impact she would have chosen. She wonders if it will do much damage. She has to wait ten long seconds to find out. The chair hits the roof with a sound like a small bomb detonating. Bits of smashed plastic fly off in all directions, clattering against the house and the pavement around it. A small cloud of dust rises from the point of the main collision and she hears a muffled sound, like something heavy falling inside the house itself. "Wow!" she says, as the realisation that she is responsible for the damage sinks in. She's amazed, and more than a little proud.

Her curiosity is rampant now. She has to know if the business with the recliner was some kind of fluke. Can she really, suddenly, be incredibly strong? She casts her eyes around the yard, looking for something to test herself with. There's nothing obvious around. Her gaze settles on the big redwood tree that spectacularly lost all its leaves a minute before. Thinking of that strange incident, she wonders. Did she do that too? If her fingers were now strong enough to crush a cell-phone to dust and her arm contained enough force to easily throw a big garden lounger into the sky, were her lungs also inexplicably more powerful? She turns her face towards the wide-spread carpet of leaves on the lawn and tentatively exhales a very measured breath through her pursed lips. Immediately, she hears the same sound of rushing wind that accompanied the initial stripping of the tree. The leaves on the ground are picked up by an invisible force and tossed backwards, dancing in the air as they fly away from her. She stops blowing and the gale-like noises cease at once. A second later, the leaves stop moving and settle back onto the lawn.

Kim laughs out loud. This is just so cool! She walks excitedly up to the trunk of the big tree. It's huge. If she were to hug it with her arms fully extended, they'd barely reach half-way around. But she's not in a hugging mood. She extends one hand towards the bark and jabs it carefully with her index finger. To her delight, her petite digit sinks into the solid tree as if she'd poked it into a slab of near-molten butter. She wiggles her finger about and is stunned by how easy it is for her to enlarge the hole she's made. She can hardly even feel the wood resisting as her slender digit carves out big chunks of it. Pulling her hand away, she pauses for a moment, then comes to a decision. She makes a fist. Her hand is small and feminine and seems to carry no threat. But when she punches the tree, it sounds like a muffled gun-shot and a shower of bark and wood fragments spray out. It felt like hitting a sponge, but she can see her arm buried almost up to her elbow in the tree. Effortlessly, she pulls her hand free, admiring the damage she's caused.

"What the fuck's happening to me?" she mutters, examining her hand for any sign of an injury and finding none. "I'm like, totally fucking strong. I've got to try this some more!" She racks her brain for a moment, trying to think up a new test for her apparent strength. She looks at the huge tree with the hole she's just created. "No way!" she thinks. "But.. I've got to try." She walks right up to the trunk. It's hard not to be intimidated by its sheer size, but she's determined to go through with her experiment. She opens her arms and reaches them around the tree. To get any kind of purchase, she has to lean into the thing. Her large breasts press against the trunk, briefly reminding her of the wonderful sensations she was enjoying a few minutes ago. Wanting more of that indescribable pleasure, she briefly removes her hands from the trunk, reaching behind herself to unclasp her bikini top and lets it fall at her feet. Now bare-chested, she leans forward against the tree, savouring the feeling of the rough bark against her breasts. She hears a loud crunch and, looking down, sees that a large area of the trunk has crumbled around her naked bust.

"No fucking way!" she exclaims, delighted. She rotates her upper body slightly and watches as the side of her right breast carves a massive channel out of the solid tree. She turns in the other direction and is rewarded by the sight of her left mound causing similar damage. Pressing herself hard against the trunk, she sees how, rather than compressing against it, her chest keeps its rounded shape and it is the wood that yields - chipping, snapping and breaking off in chunks. She takes a step back and stares at the deep, wide recess her bare breasts have torn out of the tree. "Even my tits are super-strong! This is totally awesome!" she comments. She brings her hands up to cup herself, and notices that there's no trace of any scratch or bruise anywhere on her big mounds. Her body feels great to her touch, yet she barely even noticed the resistance when she had been using it to carve out the tree.

She bends down to retrieve her bikini top and fastens it over her generous, youthful chest. Approaching the trunk once more, she's pleased to note that there's now a pre-cut recess to accommodate her big bust. She stretches her hands as far as she can around the tree, and presses them into the bark. There's a series of cracking and creaking noises as her palms sink a little into the wood. Her forearms also push an inch or so into the trunk. Confident of her purchase now, she tentatively tries to pull upwards. Nothing happens at first. She pulls a little harder and hears something groaning inside the tree. Encouraged by this, she keeps lifting. A large chunk of trunk breaks off under her left hand. She lets it fall and re-adjusts her grip. She's not straining. She is conscious of the strength flowing into her arms and she can tell, somehow, that there is much much more of that power available for her if she requires it. But she doesn't need it now. The ground below her shifts a little. She can see the lawn beginning to tear in a few places near her feet as the tree's roots breach the surface.

The creaking sound increases in volume and intensity. It's fantastic to think she's exerting so much power. She's smiling as she continues to pull her arms upwards. There's a series of sharp snaps, followed by the loudest creak yet and then a crack and suddenly, her arms shoot up about six inches. She has to look to see that the four-yard-diameter tree trunk has torn completely in half at her waist height. Even though she's now supporting the entire weight of the top five-sixths of the tree, branches and all, she hardly registers the load on her arms. It's only the lack of resistance to her lift, brought about by the trunk breaking in two, that has captured her attention. She looks up at the huge bare tree that is dwarfing her. "I'm so fucking strong!" she exclaims, excitedly raising and lowering the massive object with far greater ease than she would have lifted a single branch this morning.

Even though it has already lost all its leaves to a puff of her breath, the broken tree is still top heavy. Its weight might be negligible to her, but maintaining balance, what with the base that she's holding being far, far too wide for her arm-span, is difficult. After tossing the whole thing several yards into the air and catching it again as if it were nothing more than a beachball three times, she inevitably loses control of the massive tree on the fourth attempt. She grabs the bottom of the trunk as it falls, but does not manage to keep the rest upright. Gravity takes over and the top part of the tree begins to fall earthwards. She's still holding the other end off the lawn, but the thing has tipped beyond rescue now and its upper portion is crashing down towards the ground. She tries to get a better purchase to regain control, and succeeds only in crushing a large section of lower trunk to matchsticks between her palms.

The top half of the tree accelerates on its way to ground. Only now does Kim realise just how tall it once was. Laid on its side, the thing is too long to fit inside the yard. The top of the ex-tree crashes unceremoniously onto the fence that marks the boundary with her neighbour's land. The wooden posts offer no resistance to the falling weight, instantly breaking as the giant plant finally comes to rest, one quarter of it now lying inside her neighbour's yard, the ruins of a section of fencing buried beneath it. She's still holding what's left of the far edge in her hands. "Ooops!" she giggles, looking at the damage she's caused to the old man's fence.

From her holding position right at one end of the tree, raising the battered trunk back to vertical looks like it will be difficult, given the unfavourable lack of leverage. So she is pleasantly surprised to find that with very little effort, she can lift the fallen tree off of the broken fence and back into the air directly above her. Extending her arms, she holds the torn trunk over her head and tosses it upwards, taking care not to lose balance when she catches it on the way down.

Randolph is standing in a towelling robe outside his bathroom, shaking his head as he looks at the mess caused by a huge chunk of plaster that has fallen from the ceiling. When he heard the crash from the shower, his first thought was that something had fallen onto the roof of his house from a passing airplane. He ran out, grabbing the robe, to investigate. He found the hallway full of dust and quickly identified the dislodged plaster, but was relieved to note that the roof itself appeared to be still intact. Not that it matters, he thinks with a heavy heart. There's no longer a Sherman crystal up there collecting solar energy. Thanks to that delinquent whore next door, his forty-year experiment has ended in total failure. His dream of power is, like the hallway ceiling, in ruin. It might be the dust irritating his retinas, but it's more likely it's the sense of loss that causes a single tear to appear in his left eye.

He needs something to wipe his eye. Whatever other household supplies he might run out of, he always, always, makes sure that there's a supply of Kleenex, along with his trusty binoculars, within easy reach of his bedroom window. He makes his way there, his vision blurred and grabs a tissue. He cleans his eye and blinks. He's facing the window and that's why he notices the broken fence. "What happened there?" he wonders. "Did that happen at the same time as the ceiling? It looks smashed, not like it's just fallen over, but like something has crashed on to it. Maybe something did fall out of an airplane after all. What's that moving over there? Did that tree just jump into the air? What the..." At this point his thoughts switch gear from silent to spoken aloud. "Oh my god! No! No! It can't be! It can't!"

 

Conceptfan, Jul. 2005.