Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde - An Unusual Romance

by Lubrican

PLEASE NOTE: This is a preview of this short story. It is available for purchase in its entirety, along with
Future Girl via

Prologue

Lieutenant Commander Robert Jekyll looked around the dark street he was in. It was more of an alley, actually, but while dark, it was teeming with life. There were cook fires everywhere, and the smoke from them made his eyes water slightly. Lines of dried ducks hung from awnings over street vendors' tables and trays displayed edibles he couldn't identify. The jabber of foreign languages filled the air. He had taken a wrong turn and was lost, but he wasn't worried, really. It was hard to get thoroughly lost in Hong Kong. In any case, when it was time to get back to the Enterprise, they'd sound the horn for two seconds every minute for an hour. It was standard practice, so that sailors could follow the sound home if needed.

All the street vendors within sight were selling edibles. He suspected this was a native area, rather than one set up for tourists. Still, people seemed to ignore the tall white man in their midst, as if they were used to American warriors wandering around routinely. For that matter, that was probably true. He looked over the facades of the shops and saw one grimy window with an apothecary symbol on it. He moved toward it, feeling foolish, but going anyway because he'd always wonder if he didn't.

The interior of the shop was even darker than the alley. The walls were a maze of cubby holes that reminded him of the wand shop in the Harry Potter movies. A bent old man looked up from grinding something in a marble bowl and his mouth widened into a toothless grin.

"Hello, sailor boy." The old man's voice was surprisingly mellow.

Bob wondered how they always knew he was in the Navy. He could be any American who came to Hong Kong for any number of reasons. Of course they all knew an aircraft carrier was docked there, but he wasn't wearing his uniform and he needed a haircut.

"You looking for something to spice up your love life, I bet?" The old man grinned again. It was disconcerting hearing a British accent coming from an old, wrinkled, oriental face.

"As a matter of fact," said Bob, surprised that the man had guessed what he had come in for. "I hear stories about ... things."

"I have just what the doctor ordered," said the man. He sounded cultured ... educated ... and the euphemism he used rolled off his tongue as if he were an American.

He bent over and Bob heard the sounds of boxes being moved. The old man stood up, with a lump of something in his hand. When he set it on the glass countertop Bob saw it was the rough image of a man, seated, with his legs crossed. There wasn't any detail. It looked like some soft substance had been pressed into a mold and then allowed to dry into a statue, of sorts.

"I was thinking more of something you could eat or drink," said Bob, imagining himself meditating in front of this little statue, asking it to stiffen his prod.

"It is," said the man. He reached for a flat piece of metal that had holes in it. It looked like a very thin cheese grater. The man put a small sheet of rice paper on the counter, held the grater over it, and scraped the bottom of the statue across it just once. What amounted to dust settled onto the paper. The old man set the grater aside, and placed the statue on the counter. He held up one finger. "Wait. I must get something else."

He turned to a curtained doorway and yelled through it in Chinese. Within half a minute an old woman came through the door and handed something to the man. When Bob saw what it was, he blinked.

"This is the antidote," said the old man. "Is very good idea to have antidote handy. This is powerful stuff."

Suspicion gelled that the geezer was trying to take him for a ride, but when the old man simply picked up the rice paper and offered it to Bob, he took it. He had nothing to lose, really. The old man hadn't asked for money yet.

He licked the paper.

The urge to throw up was both sudden and strong, but Bob managed to keep his stomach contents down. The taste was so bad that he couldn't even say, "No thanks," and he had to wait, just concentrating on not puking, while his body adjusted. He realized the old man was holding out a small cup. He snatched at it, not even caring what was in it, and tipped it up to his lips. Something sticky sweet was in it, so sweet he would normally have spit it out, but it helped. He swallowed.

That was when he realized his penis was rock hard. Not only was it rock hard, but his hand was rubbing it. He hadn't even known he was doing it. The sensation of his hand against his cock, even with two layers of cloth between them, was unbelievable.

"Eat the antidote now," said the old man, holding it out. "It has just begun, and will get stronger. Eat the antidote."

Bob grabbed it, bit and chewed. It took a minute, during which the urge to pull his dick out and yank it intensified. Then that desire began to wane a bit, until, as he continued to chew and swallow, the antidote made the impulses manageable again. It was amazing stuff.

Bob swallowed and then asked, "How much?"

"One thousand US per gram," said the little man.

"That's ridiculous," said Bob. "That statue must weigh half a pound."

"I could not sell the whole statue," said the man. "This is all there is left in the world. It is irreplaceable. I cannot get more. All you need is a little. A gram would last you many, many years. The test I gave you had enough for ten sessions of lovemaking that would last all night."

"But it tastes awful," said Bob, grimacing at the memory.

"A small price to pay for pleasure that could drive a man mad."

The door opened and a small boy yelled something, and then closed it again. The old man straightened up. He reached for a packet of Chinese cigarettes and handed them to Bob.

"Please hold those and put the statue in your pocket. Quickly. There is a raid starting. I must not be found with that statue."

Bob pocketed the statue, and was thinking about what it might mean if he was found with it when the door burst open again and yelling men entered the shop. Bob was pushed against the wall opposite the showcase, and a uniformed policeman faced him. He looked at the cigarettes in Bob's hand. The proprietor was wailing in Chinese, obviously complaining about the raid. The old woman, evidently his wife, came from the back and added her shouts to the din. Glass broke. The policemen were Chinese, and brutal. The proprietor was struck on the head with what looked like a sap, and collapsed. Two policemen carried him out. The woman sank to the floor wailing. She was dragged out too.

Finally, all that was left was Bob and the man facing him.

"You came here for these?" the man asked, taking the pack of cigarettes from his hand.

"What does it look like?" asked Bob.

The man opened the pack and removed a cigarette. He put it in his mouth and then pulled one out for Bob. Taking a lighter from his pocket, he lit his, and then offered the flame to Bob. It had been almost two years since Bob had given up cigarettes, but the smoke, while a bit harsh, didn't make him cough. It felt good ... too good, and he felt the old let down of tension as that first drag entered his lungs. He realized the man was watching him closely.

"Not bad," said Bob. "I've heard Chinese cigarettes are quite good. I'll have to stock up before I go back to the ship."

"Not from here," said the policeman. "This shop is being seized. You may take that pack, but that is all. You can get them anywhere, though. I should inform you, however, that smoking is not good for your health." He punctuated his warning by taking a deep drag on his own cigarette and then dropping it to the floor. He crushed it out with his foot and gestured to the door.

The last thing Bob wanted was a confrontation ... or to be searched. He moved to the door, smiling.

"Guess I'll go shop somewhere else."

"Feel free, American sailor," said the Chinese cop. "While we don't think much of your politics, we like your money."

Once free of the choking darkness of the alley, Bob went straight back to the ship.

Along the way, he gave the opened pack of cigarettes to a beggar.

Ten years later ...

Bob Jekyll bent over and peered into the bubbling pink solution in the beaker that was perched over the Bunsen burner he had salvaged from the discards in a high school dumpster. All of his equipment, in fact, had been salvaged when the school board decided to renovate the school. Said renovation required, for reasons that had nothing to do with logic, that all the lab equipment be tossed out and replaced with new. Paul Posten, one of Bob's drinking buddies and the science teacher at the school, had been incensed and complained to Bob about it, so Bob went down and saved all he could.

Not that Bob Jekyll was a trained scientist. Rather, he had served his country proudly in the United States Navy, where the only chemistry he was familiar with involved what amounted to kerosene, being burned in prodigious amounts through the turbines of various jet aircraft he'd piloted. But he'd had a chemistry set when he was a kid, and now he was retired and had time to play.

And, of course, there was the little statue he'd kept all those years, the statue he'd picked up in Hong Kong that time, and which was made of ... something.

He didn't even know what it was. All he knew was that it worked in spades ... if you could stand to use it. And it wasn't just the unbelievably awful taste of the stuff that warned people away from it. It didn't take much, just a little bit on the tongue, and one could go for hours and hours, literally until he either couldn't remain awake any longer, or took the antidote. He had tried it only once outside the shop where he'd ... inherited it. That was when the ship docked in Darwin after the Hong Kong stop. He had felt stupid presenting the girl with both a few grains scraped off the statue, and the antidote, but four hours later, when they both couldn't stand the pain and partook of that antidote, they were very glad it was there. They had been limp, sweating shells of their former selves, and he had just barely made it back to the ship on time. He hadn't even thought about having sex for a month after that. And he hadn't contemplated using the aphrodisiac again at all.

Until now.

He had spent years thinking about the stuff. How could it be made less "toxic" so that it didn't take over a person, body and mind? How could the taste be made better so that the couple didn't puke their guts out while waiting for the drug to take effect? Granted, once it did take effect, not even pools of puke prevented ardent coupling. But the aftermath would be a hell of a lot better if the hurling part didn't take place.

It was while he happened to be reading an article on the danger of accidental poisoning, involving the ingestion of antifreeze containing Ethylene glycol, that he got an idea. If something so naturally toxic could taste good, then his substance could be made to taste good as well. And if that worked ... well he had enough to become a millionaire many times over.

So after he retired from the Navy, he began experimenting.

At first, he just tried infusing the powder into wine. Something—he suspected it was the alcohol—rendered the substance inert. It just made really nasty tasting wine. He tried non-alcoholic wine, but the powder just settled in the bottom and didn't mix. When he sipped the wine, nothing happened. When he got to the dregs, he lurched for the antidote just in time.

He tried heat next, which was where the scavenged scientific apparatus came in. The irony of his name wasn't lost on him. When he got that chemistry set as a kid, just about everybody in the whole world cautioned him not to make any monsters. And then they chuckled, grinning inanely, of course. He wasn't trying to make any monsters. He just wanted to have something to give him a little edge, should he meet the right woman, who was interested in having a good time in bed. And something to make him wealthy too, of course.

Still, the taste was unpleasant. He switched from wine to Kool-Aid. The kind with sugar was arguably better than the wine, but the kind with artificial sweetener in it was a drastic improvement. Still, it was much too foul tasting to be used recreationally. He kept looking, examining various chemicals for the properties he needed.

And now, he was sure he had it.

Trilithium Chloride had been the answer. It was expensive, but he only needed a tiny amount. Literally, if he scraped the side of an empty container and collected Trilithium Chloride dust, it was enough to counteract the taste of the substance the old Chinese man had given him. If he could solve the taste problem, moderating the effects should be relatively easy. It should be as simple as putting less and less of the powder into more and more of the liquid. But that was something to worry about when it tasted all right.

He peered at the beaker of fluid. It looked perfectly clear. He hadn't put much powder in it to begin with, and right now he saw nothing floating in the liquid. Everything seemed to have been absorbed by the boiling cherry Kool-Aid.

Making sure the antidote was handy, he sampled the brew, blowing on it to cool it, and then slurping a small sip. He glanced at his watch, waiting. Nothing happened, which amazed him. On impulse he dropped roughly ten more grains into the beaker and stirred it with a glass rod. He saw the grains drifting, but they melted almost immediately. He took another sip. Within a minute he was rock hard. It was astonishing. So little of the stuff, to make such a difference. But it appeared he'd already solved the potency issue. All he needed to do was add more Kool-Aid. Once the proper ratio was found, all it would take was math from there on out.

He let the sensations build for another minute. It wasn't quite as overpowering as his last experiment had been, back in Australia. It would be foolish to make it that strong. He was going for something that would merely heighten the pleasure, instead of requiring constant sex, literally for as long as both participants could stay in motion.

He popped a piece of the antidote into his mouth and chewed. No sense wearing out his dick if he could produce a batch safe enough to use with a lady, yet to be identified. He'd have loved to give this to his next door neighbor, Julie, who was a single mom and a deliciously beautiful woman. But he had learned long ago not to play around so close to home. She was a good neighbor. He liked both her and her daughter, and wanted them to keep liking him too.

He swallowed, and realized his dick had begun to soften. Good.

He heard pounding on his front door and grimaced. He'd have to remember to get that doorbell fixed. Peering at the solution one last time, he flicked the Bunsen burner off and went to the door. It was the UPS driver, and he was holding a smallish box. He signed for it and, while walking back to the kitchen he opened the parcel. He stared at the contents, his eyes widening. There was a folded piece of paper inside. He opened it and saw who the note, and box, was from.

Then he laughed.

Back in the kitchen, he removed the object from the box. It was heavy, made of brass, and was simply outrageous, but he loved it already. He set it down on the counter and turned to lean against the edge while he read the note. It was from a man the world knew as Roger Calendar. But Bob would always call him Wolfman, as would any other pilot he'd flown with. He read the note from the beginning.

Doc. Saw this on a street vendor's table in Bahrain and thought of you. Nobody loved going balls to the wall more than you. Had to get it for you. I will never understand these people. The SOB selling it to me stopped in the middle of the transaction for afternoon prayers. Best of luck. Eighteen months to retirement, and then I'll come see you and use this myself. -Wolfman

There was a sudden crash, and Bob jumped. He turned around just in time to see Agamemnon, the Siamese cat he'd adopted, dashing off the counter.

"Damn cat!" yelled Bob. "You know you're not supposed to be up there!"

The stand and beaker had been knocked over. He grabbed for the beaker and set it upright again. It hadn't broken, but most of the contents had splashed all over Wolfman's present and were spreading toward the edge of the counter. He grabbed at the roll of paper towels and tore off three or four, trying to soak up the fluid before it went on the floor. He added more, making the roll whirl as he pulled a long strip of towels off. Because the spill was hot, he got the yellow rubber gloves out from under the sink and pulled them on. Five minutes later the mess was cleaned up. The box his present had come in was soaked, but he just threw that away. He wrote in his notes first, while everything was still fresh in his mind. The antidote had worked perfectly, as usual. There was a piece of it still lying on the counter. Rather than wasting it - the stuff was good for you anyway - he picked it up and stuck it in the side of his mouth, chewing it gently like it was a cigar.

Then, happy that things were moving along well, he picked up Wolfman's present and, grinning widely, went to install it.

It never crossed his mind that he hadn't wiped the liquid off of the brass surfaces. Because he was still munching on the antidote, he didn't feel the effects of the now dried aphrodisiac that coated it.

As a result, he also never thought about how that haze of powder contaminating the item might very well be transferred to the next few people who used it.

Julie opened the oven and inhaled the delicious scent of chocolate chip cookies. The heat washed over her face, but she didn't care that it was a little uncomfortable. The cookies would make it all worthwhile. She intended to eat six of them just as soon as they were cool enough. She had given up on the idea of dating, so who cared if she put on a few pounds?

Veronica, her only child, danced into the room, iPod ear buds in place as she sang. She struck a pose before tugging at the wires to the ear buds.

"Something smells delicious!" she said.

"Something is delicious!" said her mother. "I made enough for us and for Nick and Bob too."

"I wish you wouldn't encourage Nick," moaned Ronnie. "He thinks he's my boyfriend because you treat him so special."

"He is your boyfriend, darling," said Julie.

"No he's not. We're study partners. He's a nice guy. He's a nerd."

"And what's wrong with nerds?" asked her mother. "Your father was a nerd."

"My father was an idiot," snapped Ronnie. She was eighteen, and much about the world was black and white to her.

"Your father was not an idiot," said Julie. "Your father was a victim of the Peter Principle."

"My father got run over by a twenty foot tall dump truck full of coal, Mother," said Ronnie. "How hard is it to miss the fact that something as big as a house is coming right at you?"

"He should have still been in the lab, not out in the field," said Julie. "In the lab he was brilliant, and didn't have to worry about house-sized things running over him."

"Let's not argue," said Ronnie. "I don't even remember him."

"I know," said Julie, sadly. "I wish you did. He really was a great guy. And he was a nerd, but I loved him."

"I know," moaned Ronnie. "I don't really have anything against nerds. I've known Nick my whole life, and we've always been best friends. But somewhere along the line he started acting like a boy."

"He is a boy, darling," said Julie, smiling.

"You know what I mean!" groaned Ronnie. "He turned into a guy and all guys think about is sex. He keeps trying to get me to do stuff with him, and I keep telling him to knock it off. I just get tired of it, that's all. He's supposed to be my best friend, but he wants to be my boyfriend instead."

"You could do worse than him. And you're at the age where you're supposed to have a boyfriend, you know," said her mother.

"I have enough problems," said Ronnie. "I don't need a boyfriend. Now you. You need a boyfriend. In fact, you've needed a boyfriend a lot longer than I have."

"I've thought about it," said Julie, sounding defensive. "I'm just very picky, that's all."

"No you're not." Ronnie blinked. "Well, maybe you are, but that's not the problem. Look at Bob. You like him. He's a hunk and he's fun to be around. Plus he's a war hero and everything. The only reason I haven't gone for him is because I was waiting for you to." She grinned.

"The reason you haven't gone for him is that he's forty and you're a senior in high school," snorted her mother, laughing.

"Well, he's only five years older than you," said Ronnie, reaching for a cookie. "So why haven't you done something about him? I think you're chicken."

She began to make clucking sounds, and put her hands into her armpits, pumping her elbows like wings.

"He's shown no interest in me," said Julie, trying to retain her dignity.

"You're blind as a bat, then," said her daughter. "I've seen him look you over lots of times. You know that frown he always has, like he's thinking about something vexing?"

Julie nodded.

"Well that's not there when he's talking to you. I've seen him look at your boobs too."

"All men look at all women's boobs," said Julie, blushing. "And who uses words like vexing these days? I think that nerd of yours is wearing off on you."

"What nerd?" came a high male voice as Nick came through the kitchen door. He lived next door and had been a daily visitor at the house for over a decade. He pretty much came and went as if he were part of the family. These two women, in fact, were the only women who both noticed and actually had conversations with him. He was enamored with both of them. It was puppy love, and he knew it, but he had no control over it.

"You, of course," said Ronnie. He really was her best friend, despite the fact that his hormones had been a problem for a year or two. Part of that was her fault, though. While she denied any romantic involvement with him to her mother, he was the boy she had first kissed, and played doctor with. The little exploration she was willing to do had been done with him. But she knew what kind of reputation a girl could get if she let too much happen, and she was not interested in having that reputation.

"She just used the word 'vexing' in a sentence during conversation," said Julie. "And just last week she said I was being pernicious."

"That's not me," said Nick. "Ronnie has always had a propensity to elucidate her feelings using descriptive language. It's one of the things I find most endearing about her on a cerebral level."

Julie looked at her daughter and rolled her eyes. "I rest my case."

"What are you doing here?" asked Ronnie, staring at the young man.

"I thought we were going to hang out at the mall," he said.

"As I recall, I believe I said I needed a new bra," said Ronnie.

"So ... aren't you going to the mall for that?"

"You can't go with me to shop for a bra!" groaned Ronnie.

"Why not?" asked the geek.

Julie laughed. Her daughter shot her a dirty look. Julie lifted a dozen cookies into a zip-lock bag and handed them to Ronnie.

"On your way, drop these off at Bob's. Tell him they're for helping me with that broken light socket last week."

"Why don't you take them over to him yourself?" asked Ronnie. "Maybe he'd go bra shopping with you. Maybe we could double date to Penney’s to buy underwear!"

"You mean this is a date?" asked Nick, sounding hopeful.

"No it's not a freaking date!" yelled Ronnie. She shot another baleful look at her mother, who was hiding a smile behind her hand.

She snatched at the bag of cookies from her mother. "Come on!" she snapped to Nick. "I'm driving, and you're keeping your mouth closed! Got it?"

"Yes ma'am!" grinned Nick, who didn't care if she snapped at him at all ... not as long as he got to go with her.

Ronnie had calmed down. Nick had only asked once if she would model the bras for him, so he could help her "choose the best one." After that he had behaved himself, playing a game on his smart phone while she decided which bra would go best with her prom dress. Nobody had asked her to prom yet, but she was going anyway, even if it was by herself. You only got one prom in life, and she wasn't going to miss out on it just because boys were too stupid to recognize her better qualities.

She mused as she walked along, idly window shopping while Nick ambled beside her. It wasn't that they didn't notice her better qualities. She saw her rippling reflection in a window as they walked by it. At five-seven she was neither tall, nor short. The bra she'd just purchased was a thirty-four, with a B cup. The cup was a bit small, these days, but she hoped it would produce some Wonderbra cleavage without the expense of an actual Wonderbra. She thought her black hair and dark eyes were her best assets. She hoped she looked mysterious. But none of that was why she didn't get asked out more than once by a guy. It was because she wouldn't put out. Giving a man her virginity only happened once, too, and she had no intention of short-changing herself in that area either.

She glanced at the boy walking next to her. He was oblivious to what was going on around him, his head in the clouds. No one knew it, but he'd gotten farther with her than any of the popular boys. He'd had his hands on her naked breasts before, albeit under her shirt. She'd frenched Nick, who was a surprisingly good kisser, in her opinion. And twice, his hand had slipped between her legs as they kissed and she'd let it stay there for a few minutes, his fingertips fluttering uncertainly over the crotch of her jeans.

But no more than that. He wanted more. He'd begged her to touch his penis. He knew she masturbated, just as she was aware of his private habits. But she refused to submit to the temptation of getting naked with him to do that ... to watch him do that. She thought about that, sometimes, as her own fingers did what she wouldn't let a boy's do. It was exciting to think about. But that was all she'd do.

She looked sideways at Nick again. At least he stopped when she yelled at him. He might beg and plead, but he didn't keep pushing, or try to use guilt to make her think she was causing him pain or humiliation or whatever. One boy had even tried to force things, but Bob had taught her years ago all about where to put her knee when something like that happened.

Her thoughts went to him, the older man who lived next door, on the other side of her from Nick. He was handsome and interesting and slightly scary in some ways. She knew he had shot rockets at people, and dropped bombs on terrorists. He wouldn't talk about it, but she knew friends of his had been killed over there in the war. He wasn't anything like the actors in that stupid movie Top Gun. She had actually liked that movie until she met Bob, a real pilot. Bob was so much better than those bragging actors. Getting to know him after he moved in had been one of the most fun parts of her life. He was like a dreamy teacher, except she could spend as much time with him as she wanted. He'd lived next door to her for six years now and she couldn't imagine her life without him in it.

Thinking about him reminded her about the cookies. She turned to Nick.

"Come on. We still have to take the cookies over to Bob's."

"How many are in the bag?" asked Nick. "He'd never know if we each had one ... or two."

"You are such a man," snorted Ronnie.

Nick looked pleased with himself. "Really?"

"You don't get any of his cookies," she said firmly.

"Can we make out a little bit instead?" he asked, hopefully.

"What is with you and making out?" she said, stopping and putting her hands on her hips. "You know you're not my boyfriend."

"I know," he whined. "I just like it, that's all. I like you. And nobody else will let me practice. It's not like I'll try to get in your pants or anything."

"Yes you will," she said, her voice reasonable. "You always do, sooner or later."

"And you never let me," he said, his voice also calm, "but it's fun to practice, and someday maybe you'll succumb to my overpowering masculinity."

Ronnie felt the same glow she always felt when he said things like that. He obviously thought she was pretty, and that made her feel good. And he respected her enough to know the limits. That made her feel good too. She told herself it was why she thought of him as her best friend.

For reasons she didn't even think about Ronnie parked on the street in front of Bob's house, instead of in her own driveway next door. His yard had been let go. He was not a gardener. When he first moved in, the front yard had been a tasteful arrangement of lilac and forsythia bushes, neatly pruned, with beds of hostas and daylilies, as well as roses and marigolds. A large walnut tree on one side and an even larger elm on the other seemed to lean toward each other, as if watching over the yard. After six years of no care to speak of, it was a riotous jungle of color and scent that Ronnie loved. In a lot of places, when you got close to the house, you couldn't even see the street.

Bag of cookies in hand, Ronnie approached the steps to the porch. She was halfway up before she noticed the new addition to the front door.

She stopped. She stared.

She approached andpeered at the new knocker on the door. Almost unconsciously, she reached for it.

Then she stopped.

Most people think an aphrodisiac makes you a better lover. That is not technically true. If you know nothing about making love, all an aphrodisiac does is make you horny and frustrated. Think of it as if you were in a foreign court, accused of something you couldn't possibly have done. All you have to do is explain why you couldn't possibly have done it. Except you can't speak the language. And pantomime isn't working. It's a feeling of helplessness that is frustrating in ways that can almost drive one mad.

Of course the teens weren't helpless. While their knowledge of how to have intercourse was severely limited, each had masturbated hundreds of times before. That was how they dealt with feelings that older people used intercourse for. And both knew how it felt to be horny. So both kids understood perfectly well that they were horny.

What they couldn't understand was why they were that horny. This was a level of horniness that neither had ever experienced before. They were used to being horny on the level of a daisy lever action one-pump BB gun. This was horniness on the level of the Barrett M82 .50 cal semiautomatic sniper rifle. There was almost no comparison.

For Ronnie, the urge to push her hand into her jeans was almost overpowering. Almost. She held both hands out at her side, as if she were walking a wire and using her arms for balance. It was crazy. She stumbled into the living room, where Nick was standing, rubbing at the front of his pants and looking around frantically.

"Something's wrong with me!" he gasped.

"Me too!" she said, breathlessly.

"What is it?" His eyes were wild.

"I don't know," she panted.

END OF PREVIEW

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