Chased

You run down the street. You look behind you just in time to see one of the thugs chasing you raise his pistol.

BANG BANG BANG*

You zigzag, and the bullets miss you. You see an alley coming up and duck down it. In front of you stands another huge thug pointing a hand cannon right at you.

BANG BANG BANG

One bullet strikes you in the leg and you fall down. You look up at the thug towering over you. Hmmm, those last three shots sounded more like a door knock than a pistol.

You wake up from the dream with the pain of the gunshot wound still lingering.

BANG BANG BANG

The knock on the door shakes off the last remnants of the dream. You get up and walk over to the door. You open the door to stare out at your visitor; it is Dianne Kraus from 2C wearing a pair of hip-hugger jeans, which look like they came from a spray can the way they tightly cover her rounded hips and ass, and a short green crop top that shows her pierced navel and accentuates her large tits. She looks at you with a sultry fire in her eyes. Now you know why you were dreaming of mob enforcers.

"What are you doing here? I could be dead if your father catches me!" you exclaim. Mr. Krauss definitely put the fear of God in you, or maybe the fear of Odin.

Dianne walks past you, brushing close to your body. "I just thought that you might like some afternoon companionship. I just got home from my college classes. Oh, and Dad? He's more bark than bite. And why would he ever find out? I'm certainly not going to tell him." she counters as she looks over your small apartment. She turns back to you and closes the distance quickly. She presses up against you and strokes your cheek with her long fingers. You are tall, but you still need to look up to meet her eyes. The sensations of her breasts pushing into your chest and her touch are at war with your thoughts of Mr. Krauss pummeling you with his large fists. "So, are you going to invite me to sit down, or should I just go home and watch TV?"

Against your better judgement, your little brain casts its override veto of your head's choice, and you say, "Er, won't you sit down, Dianne? Can I get you something to drink?"

She grins and the rest of your resistance melts; she has one of those smiles that could beguile a crocodile. She gives you a peck on the cheek and sits down on your beaten-up couch. "I'd love a soda or just some water, thank you," she replies with a triumphant grin.

You head to the kitchen and fetch a couple of sodas. When you return, you sit on the couch next to Dianne with a great deal of trepidation. You would sit somewhere else, but this is the only piece of furniture to sit on in your apartment. She takes a sip and then looks at you intently.