City of Angels

"And the man and his wife were both naked and were not ashamed," she said in a clear voice that carried to every corner of the room as she exposed her flat stomach then her red pubic hair as more buttons were released. She wore her stockings and garters but no panties.

That did it. Established couples locked their mouths on each other's, attacked buttons, zippers, ties. Clothes were pushed off with haste, tossed across pews or onto the floor. Singles found each other, as in the library she saw that multiple men shared women readily.

Her dress unbuttoned, she nudged the Reverend, he raised his hands to hold it and held it as he removed it from her body, he laid it carefully across the dais next to her hat. She reached behind him, unhooked his robe tie, he lifted and shrugged it off to stand all but naked, his clerical collar and his black shoes and socks his only coverings.

She stepped forward and pressed against him, felt his prick rise against her abdomen, she put her mouth on his, kissed him hard and greedily, he wrapped his arms around her and held her ass cheeks.

She'd been amazed when she'd met him. He was not an old man, but he was not young, a few years past Janet's age. Despite that, he'd never mated. He was prey. That was good. This cost her much of what she'd gained from Marsha and the young man at the library. The Reverend would free her from having to hunt again for some time. She nudged him a bit, encouraged him to lie down, he did so, their bodies partially obscured by the dais from the crowd.

Not that she noticed anyone cared. Most every possible penetration was in progress, even people who were of greatly advanced ages had reactivated dormant genitalia. Few items of clothing remained, only those which offered no impairment of access. There was no coherent speech beyond 'oh, god', 'yes', just moans, pants, screams, slaps of flesh against flesh.

She rubbed her abdomen against the Reverend's stiff prick, raised her head, put her hands on his chest.

"Pinch my nipples, hard, Reverend, I need it," he grinned, reached up and her mouth opened quickly as he grabbed them. She lifted her crotch, used her hand to steady his shaft and place it at her opening. He pinched as she pushed down, his mouth flew open, having never penetrated a woman before. She felt the pressure but not the moment of pain from the library. Curious. Pleasant, nice, but curious. No matter.

She pumped up and down, her nipples were on fire, she felt him, knew it wouldn't be long. Was it always like this? Did men always give up their seed for so little effort? As in the library this gave her pleasure but nothing like the total release she'd felt on her own and with Marsha. She pushed down, nudged his arms out, he put them around her back as she lowered her torso to a small angle and faced him..

As she'd felt in the library, she felt his prick stiffen further and then felt him push his seed into her. She pumped up and down three more times until he groaned as his eyes closed. As before she rose quickly and allowed his softened flesh to lead a trail of sticky goo from her body then she set herself on his abdomen.

She dropped quickly and pushed her mouth tightly against his and she fed, she felt him lose himself quickly, easily. She pulled his very essence from him, he offered little mental and physical resistance beyond his arms going stiff. She fed deeply and fully.

She was done. She lifted her head, licked her lips, took a deep breath. The crowd behind her had redoubled their efforts as she'd fed, as her strength had grown. She pushed up, stood, turned and walked to the dais. Smiled. She took the dress and stepped to the side to pull it on, saw on the floor in the space between the first row of pews and the front of the sanctuary something new. A man lay prone on the floor, his prick clearly pushed into a woman who squatted on him. Behind her another man entered her second opening, her 'anus'. Kinsey had mentioned that, but he'd said it was the way men gave pleasure to each other, something she saw happening in the aisle between the pews, about halfway to the rear. Here at the front, a third man pushed his erect flesh in and out of the woman's mouth.

She had all manner of acts of pleasure to explore in the future. But she obviously needed a man unlike those she'd had so far, these prey. George. Yes, George or others like him. But now, she had things to do.

She put her hat on, adjusted it. She buttoned up her dress as she walked silently through the curtain at the side of the sanctuary into the short hall to the Reverend's office. There was a phone. She picked up the handset, dialed '0'.

"Operator," the woman's voice said.

"Please," she spoke quietly but urgently, "I need the police. I need help."

"Putting you through..." clicks, rings.

"Dispatch, what is your emergency?"

She described the scene in the church, the address. Said she was worried for her safety. They said officers would be there in minutes, to stay hidden and safe. She said she would, said she needed to hang the phone up, she heard people coming...

She walked quickly back to the sanctuary as the wild matings continued in the nave. Some, especially the elderly, had collapsed from apparent exhaustion. She stepped around the Reverend's still form and walked to the far wall, pushed one of a matching set of two doors open slightly, saw no one, opened both widely. She walked along the side wall to the rear set of identical doors, opened them widely as well. Then she walked to the rear and turned, walked along the back wall to the opposite side. The first couple were already out the open doors, the woman bent over, her mate entered her from the rear as she put her hands on a small fountain.

The doors on this side led into a garden area, meant for quiet contemplation. She opened one quietly, stood in the open doorway. She looked on as the majority of the rutting, moaning congregants streamed out the open doors, the most advanced already at the street.

Perfect.

She smiled broadly, stepped through the door, pulled it closed with a soft click. She followed paths she'd had Janet show her previously, slipped out into a narrow, paved alley, walked quickly, turned onto a small street full of isolated lairs. She heard the sirens approach, the closest now still as they arrived at the street along the main entrances.

She walked lightly and jauntily, turned right at the next intersection. She knew there was a 'pay phone' down this street. The news department of her studio had a 'tip line' that had operators there every hour of every day, you never knew when news might happen. Janet had typed up many reports and scripts from events reported via such tips.

This would be the best one ever.

Reports

"Where the hell is Marsha?"

She heard the man's voice, loud, gruff, angry. Her workplace was in chaos. The 'naked church riot' of the day before was all the rage, news reports flew in every direction, scripts written and rewritten at unprecedented speeds.

Janet loved it. Well, not Janet. Janet. She laughed.

The voice was Mr. Worley, the big boss. Unlike George, even the Reverend, he was not attractive. He was old. His hair was thin, combed over his spotted bald spot, his cheeks had hanging flabby flesh. He sweated heavily, his large stomach pushed his shirt out, threatened to overpower its buttons and his tie couldn't decide to stay on the stomach or fall to one side or the other

"Don't we have anyone who can run the news wire teletypes? No one???" His voice was full of anger, of threat.

Janet stopped her typing, her eyes went distant, unfocused. Came back.

"I can," she said, quietly, then firmly, "I can, Mr. Worley."

He turned to her, his face deep red, his breathing laboured.

"What? You?"

"Yes," she paused, "I... did study in secretarial college. Back in Iowa."

"What's your name?"

"Janet."

"Ok, Janet, this way. I guess I have to believe you."

He led her through another large room, she saw George, he looked up, his eyes widened slightly when he saw her, then he smiled at her. She smiled back, stepped quickly to keep up with the puffing Mr. Worley.

In the next room she saw a number of noisy machines, half again the size of her typewriter . They had keyboards like hers, but used long rolls of paper and a thinner paper tape. Fat wires went from them to the wall.

She smiled. Marsha had told her she worked with 'wires'. That was these. She'd quickly dug through what she'd absorbed from the thin, dark-haired woman, found enough. She could operate these.

"Here, this is the big story, gotta get it out there, NOW!"

He handed her a story, the story. Her story. That no one knew was her story.

She set the paper in the cradle, set her chair. It was the coded info, not the simple text, that controlled where the 'wires' went. These indicated the recipients, gave them instructions, the skill was knowing those controls. Otherwise it was simply another keyboard like she used every day. Her fingers flew as she created the paper tape that would put the text 'onto the wire' where newspapers and radio and TV stations across the country, around the world, would get it.

Her beacon would be lit.

'It was a normal July Sunday, like every previous July 14th, this Sunday of Nineteen Hundred and Sixty-Three in the City of Angels. A bright clear blue sky, the promise of heat. Like any other Sunday, the congregents of the First Presleyterian Church of the Divine Pompadour dressed in their finery. Did they have any premonitions of what the day would become?'

It was a good story. She had not met the man who'd written it, nor had Janet, she would do so. He was good with words.

As it went, she smiled softly. He'd taken liberties, but he'd captured the feeling of the event. That was good. She was happy. And then she knew. The beacon was afire.

'"We're still investigating," said Captain Patrick Rourke, LAPD Central Precinct Commander, "the causes. One nice young lady was worried it's aliens, from UFOs. Well, I'm not going to say no to that, we'll get to the bottom of it. If it's aliens, they'll regret coming to my city."'

Janet grinned as her fingers worked. After she'd phoned in the tip she'd taken a circuitous route to the front of the church. The police shoved the last of her handcuffed naked fellow church goers into paddy wagons and patrol cars, blankets and jackets draped over them. A half dozen of the naked were themselves police officers, likely the first few to arrive, Janet had mused, when the mania was still strong.

She'd seen an older, solidly built man in a dark blue uniform much like the other officers but with more ornate decorations. She'd smiled, walked up to him while his attention was directed at the crowd, along with a couple of other officers with him.

"Excuse me, officer, sir," she'd said, a quiver in her voice, all three had turned suddenly, their eyes wide but they'd quickly mastered their threat displays when they'd registered the young, pale, pretty red haired woman in a Sunday-best dress and hat.

"Oh, sorry," the distinguished officer had said, "Captain Rourke at your service, miss. Can we help you?"

"Is it over?" She'd reached out, touched his hand, he'd kept his there, clearly tried to reassure a worried civilian, "How did it happen?"

"We're looking into that, we'll get to the bottom of it," he'd put his second hand over hers. Perfect.

"Could it have been aliens?" She'd asked, "From these UFOs?"

His eyes had widened, then he'd patted her hand.

"Well, now, like I said we'll find out. You should let us finish up. You're safe now."

"Thank you, sir, I'll stay out of the way."

One last squeeze, she'd released him, turned, walked away, a broad smile. She'd turned left at the intersection and made her way back to her little lair.

'Preliminary statements from those involved are confused, according to Captain Rourke. Statements indicate little more than "the Reverend told us to."'

'Unfortunately we will never get his side of the story. We are sorry to report that there was one fatality, Reverend Thomas Duane Harris was found near the altar. At this time no cause of death has been determined, we will provide an updated report once we know more.'

That hadn't been her intent, but he'd been weak, not like Marsha or the young man in the library. The article made no mention of his lack of clothing at the time. Well, he still had his collar and shoes and socks on, she chuckled as she typed. That her role appeared completely forgotten buoyed her mood even more.

'A number of other congregants, mostly elderly, required hospitalization but all are expected to recover. Whether they, or any others, involved in this sordid affair recover their dignity only time will tell.'

She finished, pushed the 'send' button, relaxed. A few minutes later the machine chattered, a cascade of confirmations as it made its way everywhere.

"Ok, Mr. Worley, it's sent," at her voice he turned, looked at her, "I'll go back to my station?"

He approached her with more sheets of paper.

"Nope, Janet, I think you'll be here all day, don't mind do you?"

"Wherever I'm needed," she took the sheets, handed him the first story, put the new ones in the cradle. He squeezed her shoulder with his free hand.

Late in the day she relaxed, all of the stories 'on the wire', the offices had calmed. George came through, saw her, approached. He stood behind, kneaded her shoulders, she found that felt good. She knew this man would provide much more pleasure than the others so far, but she would take it slow. Her beacon was high and bright and despite her exertions she was sated after feeding so well over the weekend. She knew George had a mate and young, it meant great rewards but also danger and she couldn't be careless, had no need to rush things.

"Ah, George, Janet," Mr. Worley approached, "bad news, I'm afraid."

George removed his hands, they both looked at the older man.

"I know you're both friends of Marsha's," he continued, "I sent a mail room boy to her apartment to check things out, not like her to leave us in the lurch. One of her neighbors said she's in the hospital. I've sent someone there. I know everyone here will be hoping for the best. We'll see."

Janet's anger, despair and horror at the events of the weekend were familiar to her, even a source of amusement. But Janet's seeming quiet satisfaction at this news was a reminder that the strange, repressed woman was not the only one here who thought Marsha was wrong. It was also a reminder she didn't understand everything about these humans. Their technology was primitive, they trucked in myth and superstition, but as their mass frenzies of violence attested they could be dangerous. Not to be underestimated.

"I'll need you in here again tomorrow, Janet, that ok? Marsha was on her own this week, I let the others take vacation. This is usually a pretty slow time."

"Yes, sir, certainly," she nodded, smiled.

"I'll make sure you get paid the higher rate this week," he said as if she were about to ask, she smiled more broadly, "and if it's the worst with Marsha, we might make it permanent."

"I'm your girl," she said, he liked that based on his smile.

"The night girl is just coming in," he said, then reached into his pocket, "why don't you go home? And here's five bucks, forget the bus, get a cab. Another long day tomorrow. George, let's nail down your story for the late news? Let's play up the library angle, way too many people getting naked this weekend!"

The three laughed together, Janet stood, first George then Mr. Worley kissed her cheek, she smiled broadly as she walked to her regular desk to get her purse, a crisp five dollar bill in her hand.

The Observatory

She was asleep on her side, her red hair sprawled across the pillow and her bare shoulders, the blanket pushed to just below her breasts when her eyes popped fully open. She remained motionless for five long, slow breaths then she rolled onto her back. The ceiling had its usual ethereal glow from the filtered streetlights that leaked past the window blinds at this still pitch dark predawn hour.

She smiled broadly, her eyes blinked slowly.

A clear picture formed in her mind of a white stone and masonry building in what they called 'Greek Revival' style, long, low, a large dome in the center, two smaller ones at each end. It was fronted by a flat lawn, benches, walking paths. Above and behind it on the mountain were large, white letters. Vistas of the unbroken human developments stretched beyond vision and met the blue rolling ocean. She held the thought while she took more slow, deep breaths, held each one for a heartbeat.

The vision slowly faded and the soft glow of the ceiling returned. She took a final breath as her eyes closed and her mouth stayed in a soft smile.

She sat on the bench in front of the long, low stone and masonry Griffith Observatory on the mountain half past nine a.m. the same day. She'd dressed for work in a short-sleeved button-down light yellow dress that fit nicely around her smooth bra and reached just below her knees, thin dark silk stockings covered her legs to mid-thighs, heels higher than anything the old Janet had owned, when she'd bought them the nice woman had called them 'stilettos'. Their color perfectly matched her dress. The thin blue cardigan she'd worn when she'd left her lair was across her lap.

The giant letters were up the mountainside and angled behind her left shoulder, she gazed across the skyscrapers of downtown. The ocean was off her right side, she could see it if she turned her head. The cooler temperatures this Wednesday morning of the last week of September meant the smog built more slowly than in the heat of high summer. She'd phoned Mr. Worley, her boss, with the excuse that she needed the morning to talk to her family in Iowa about a family illness and would arrive around lunchtime. He'd been solicitous, offered her the whole day if she needed to take care of things. She'd thanked him but promised she'd be in.

She saw the sun above and in front of her at the exact angle it had been in her vision, she smiled. She watched the shuttle bus that ferried tourists and others to this famous landmark as it topped the hill and turned the wide arc along the access road. It stopped at the appointed spot. School had started, so only a few adults emerged, dressed in the usual casual sloppiness of tourists with cameras on neck straps.

Last off was a tall, solidly built man, somewhere around fifty, maybe a bit older, his smooth skin the color of dark chocolate. He carried a brown fedora with a grey band, his tightly curled black hair was cut short and had a generous sprinkle of grey. He was clean shaven, clad in a perfectly fitting dark grey suit with thin white pinstripes, a lighter grey shirt with a pale yellow tie.

As she knew he would be. She smiled, stayed on the bench, her right leg crossed over her left.

The black man turned, offered a 'thank you' to the driver, the door closed. He donned his hat, walked toward her with slow but deliberate pace as the shuttle drove off for its next round.

"Miss," he said in a deep, authoritative voice, he doffed his hat, she noticed at least a couple of tourists with squinted eyes on the scene, "wonderful morning. Might you be able to answer some questions for a tourist?"

"It's truly a wonderful morning, good sir," she responded, just loud enough for the nosey nellies to hear, "certainly. Have a seat if you please?"

He sat, left a clear gap between them, held his hat in his lap. The nosey nellies wandered off.

His left hand slid off his lap onto the bench, her right did likewise and laid two fingers across two of his. He casually set the hat on the bench, covered the hands.