Out there, on the horizon.

After zipping up, you decide your drop-in had been more than sufficient, and take your leave.

"Sure you don't want to wait for Mom?" As you slip into your shoes at the front door, Heather presses her forearm against the perpendicular wall, watching as you loop a lace around the other. "She can milk 'em for you." The girl, for a curt breath, squeezes half of her own fruitful chest, as exposed as the bottom of a baby and basking in the musk of the daylight. Probably figured you might not have caught the meaning weren't she to.

Squeeze squeeze. Wiggle of a brow.

"You know, my breasts are BIG and RIIPE," she adds, a suggestive tone briefly surfacing before she reneges, "but hers are just soooo much fuller, perfect for churning out some fresh white cream for a big healthy man." A smile that is slightly more than a smile graces her cheeks. "Like yourself, John."

Thanking Heather for the hospitality, you rise back upright, then look down. Her sizable breasts, now left alone once more, sit before her like melons awaiting the pick.

Gently patting her on the side of her tit, you unsheathe a slim nod, toss a finger wave, then bound out the door, as Heather makes one last attempt. "She'll probably be by in like 10 minutes." Last syllables woven into a sing-song candor.

"Really, I'd like to. But I got other things on the itinerary."

"Like what?"

"Stuff, you know." You pull open the gate, turning to her. "Out there. On the horizon."

With nary a wink, you turn forward, step out onto the sidewalk and stroll off as Heather pouts and closes the door. A rectangular multi-paneled block. One that, like most of its kind, was just another swing away from the bright and caring embrace of a local, middle-class household. A unit that, in this particular case, enforced nipples in the open, JAVs during family dinners, oral exercises conducted on boy parts whenever the jaw was feeling stiff.

But come now. The age of Queen Victoria was long since over.

What did you expect?

Checkers?

"Pete." Subsequent was the swirl of a loogie being rocketed out of a gnarling mouth. "Name's Pete."

"And I'm John." Your offered hand lay stretched out in mid-air. "Nice to meet you."

He looks at the hand like it was a fish.

"So what didya want?" he takes a whig out of his foiled bottle.

"Is Avery home?"

"Avery! Your friend's here."

The man, wifebeater and all, walked off and disappeared behind a back door. You adjust your collar. Mind manipulation abilities made things practically challenge-less these days.

Under normal conditions, he'd never give you his first name. Normally, he'd totally kick you out. He would have probably uppercut you ****. Instead, off he goes to chomp away on a cigarette with his grisly, shirt-stain ornamented retinue as his daughter is called down by a young lad he's never seen a day in his life.

"Dad?" Thuds landing on each step like soft, descending apples from a tree branch, you are soon treated to the sight of a long brown haired girl coming down the stairwell, her bangs draped over her brows in a cute fringe that rounds her face out perfectly. "Who's this?"

"I'm John," you say, introducing yourself. "Just combing through the east side of the neighborhood. Getting to know all my future residents."

A wrinkle immediately forms on the relatively tall girl's brow, but before she could say anything, you pass her a paper, which you take out of thin air from behind your back, and she gives it a quick read.

A few seconds later, she's given you her panties, phone number (which is scrawled on the panties), and finishes up a quick, silly dance that you made up which involved a very corny pelvic thrust, in which her crotch was thrust against the open air in a perfect dry-hump surrogate.

You return to your Mercedes-Benz, the one you had spawned seconds after leaving Heather's hours ago, and toss Avery's panties in the back of the car, joining the towering pile that had filled it up this passing afternoon. Now blanketed by the evening glow. You had indeed kept busy. Nodding in a kind of neutral acknowledgement, you settle into the driver's seat and close the door, shutting off the car's interior lights.

Naturally, you had spent the day perusing the east section of the neighborhood, and collecting all your [physically viable] female residents' contact info, along with their underwear. Not everybody was home, so you were probably going to do another run-through tomorrow, or whenever you weren't feeling too lazy about it.

Yes, you could have just flicked your wrist and gotten every pantie in the neighborhood flying through your window. It was about the methodology, though. The hunt. A sense of old-school productivity, after all, made for good old-fashioned payoffs.

With a fleeting thought, a small shudder peregrinates the air.

Still.

Didn't mean you couldn't have that with bras.

"Ahh!"

While stopped at an intersection, you turn to your right to see, waiting to cross, a slim woman in a long black tee feeling her chest up. While a lewd scene at first sight, it became a surreal one as a pink article suddenly worm its way out from under the back of her shirt, rippling through the shirt, then flying away from her and straight through your window.

You look down at your hand to see a pink bra patterned with red circles draped across it. With a fling, you let it join the pantie pile behind you, and press on the pedal as the woman at the stop sign looks down at herself with a mixture of incredulity and embarrassment as her handy explorations confirm that, indeed, she is braless. Just naked skin and bare nipples rubbing against cotton cloth. Inadvertently or otherwise.

As you drive, numerous eep's and ah's litter the soundscape. There, out a bedroom window, flies a lacy black D cup brassiere, straight into your face. Peeling it off, you intake its warm aroma before flinging it to the back once more. Before you is the sight of numerous bras in midair all gliding towards your car. Small, big, cotton and lingeie-set alike, colorful and plain, even a few somewhat damp bikini tops (making you wonder how those at the pool were handling the sudden diaspora of tops) -- all of the cups in the neighborhood in perfect assembly.

They whoosh into your car like coins out of a slot machine. Looking back, you have to admit it; you're accruing quite the notable collection. Underwear of all the girls in town, in your four door sedan?

Had to be a record, right?

In your distraction, you blatantly run a red light. The womanly aroma convulging in your equally pleasant, fresh-smelling metal carriage must have been getting a bit distracting, surely.