Fugitives of Chaos

'We're getting close! I can feel it! Here! Try this!'

Vanity kept one hand on my shoulder and put her other arm around my waist She raised her left knee to the level of my hip, struck a pose, and said to the bird in a husky whisper: 'Oh, Colin… ? Amelia and I have been lesbian lovers few years! In bed, at night, she forces me to pretend I'm you, and has me spank her bottom…! Turn back, and we'll show you… ?'

Exasperated, I shrugged her grip away. 'Oh, stop it Spanking isn't kinky, or sexy, or anything. It just hurts and it's humiliating. Like getting your foot caught in a slamming door. Vanity, this is really not working. Let's get dressed.'

Vanity said, 'One last idea. And this one I know is going to work! Please? You did promise.'

'Okay, what is it?'

'Here. Turn toward the door. Let me put my arms around you again…'

'Okay, fine. Now what?'

Vanity suddenly seized my wrists and pushed them behind my back, crossing them and extending them toward Colin. 'Quick, Colin! Amelia wants you to tie her up! She's into that sort of thing!'

I threw my arms up, so that she stepped back, off-balance. 'Oh! That's the last straw!' I said. My face felt hot. I was blushing with anger or embarrassment, or both. 'What a terrible thing to say! You owe me a big…'

But Vanity's face was slack with shock; her eyes were round as saucers. I heard a noise behind me. A rustle. Something larger than a bird was on the bed.

Vanity screamed.

I turned. I don't know what I expected to see, a monster or something. It was Colin. He was standing on the same bed where we had thrown our clothes, so we could not exactly get to them. There he was, large as life. And naked as a jaybird.

And erect. I didn't know they could turn purple colored. Like a big, sort of, tree, I guess, coming out of a fuzzy black bush.

I screamed, too. It seemed the thing to do at the time. I suspect my brain had sprung a leak at the sight of a naked Colin.

We both ran out the door, shrieking with the shock of it, the unadulterated embarrassment.

Victor and Quentin had just got done leaping to their feet by the time we nigh-unto-naked girls came running into the room, jiggling, I am sure, and wiggling all sorts of exposed surfaces we normally keep covered.

Even Victor, the unflappable, looked flapped at that moment. Quentin had his mouth open as the two-girl train of unclad beauty drove toward him, and I could see he did not know whether to laugh or cry or just drool.

We hopped behind the boys. I got behind Victor, and Vanity was behind Quentin, which, in hindsight, was good, because had it been the other way around, my chin would have been on Quentin's head (making him feel not very protective) and Vanity would have been unable to see what happened next, with Victor's shoulder blades blocking the view.

Victor, his eyes on the door, put his hand back in that cliche protective male gesture to make sure your woman is behind you. Whether by accident or design, the hand touched my nude hip (or maybe there was a wisp of mist draped over it), and I could feel all my little goose flesh hairs stand up. His fingers were warm.

Quentin was having trouble swallowing. He, too, kept his eyes on the door, but Vanity was huddling much closer to him than I was to Victor, had her arms around his waist and chest, and her breasts were mashed up into his back. I don't know much about men, but I knew enough to know that every one of Quentin's nerve signals was concentrating on increasing the sensitivity and reception from that area of his upper back.

Victor said sharply, 'What happened?'

Vanity could not talk. She had just realized (I could see it on her face) that she was standing in her panties and bra, with her risque French garter belt, silky stockings and high heels, in a position where, if either boy moved, they would see her. Again. She could not get back to her clothes without being put on display. Again.

So she was blushing. It was almost fun to watch, because her whole face glowed red, and her neck, and shoulders, and even the tops of her breasts. That is the price you pay for having such a clear complexion.

We girls with tans, at least during the summer, can hide shame better.

I said, 'It worked as planned.'

Colin, from the other room, called out, 'Don't shoot me! It's me, Colin. Or maybe it's some horror from the pit who learned to impersonate Colin's voice.'

Quentin asked (quite reasonably, I thought), 'Shoot you with what?'

Colin shouted back: 'Where the hell am I?'

Victor said, 'You are in the Caledonia suite on deck four of the cruise ship Queen Elizabeth II, one day out of Bristol, bound for New York. What happened in there? Why are the girls wearing costumes?'

'I think it is part of an important master plan. Send the naked girls back in, and I will investigate, and then report back. What happened to Boggin?'

Quentin shouted, 'We don't know. What happened to you?'

'Ah! I put myself in a situation where I really, really wanted to fly. My thoughts became, how to put it—?

Focused. Very focused. You should try it some time. How long has it been?'

I said, 'Tell him it's been twenty years. It'll be funnier that way.'

Colin shouted, 'Is that Amelia? Nice dress, Amelia. I think your dressmaker just saved me from the doom of eternal birdhood. Thank you.'