In a bathing suit, of a most direct design, Shelly Kearns was gorgeous and desirable all the way past dreams and, in the water, a sylph of the first order, and with every dive she took, explored the bottom of our pond for odd treasures of any sort, reclaimable for new duties or positive salvage. She kept her treasure of such objects on two shelves and a corner table in her home left by her husband Steve, dead from a high dive onto a half-sunken log that we assume made the trip on the river from the forest thirty miles upstream.
Every dive into water after that disaster, she thought of him, even as she found silver coins, lost necklaces, gold shiny as ever, a pistol perhaps from some war or some crime, surely death attached to its being discarded; it, too, graced her collection table, reality at least reflecting its impact for her few visitors, at least at first, until the local police chief, a long-widower, utilized the pistol as a further introduction tool, her in a sheer-cut bathing suit too much to ignore.
He began the introduction in a police manner: “Mrs. Kearns, I believe you have in your collection of retrievable objects, a pistol of obvious value in an old case that remains on our records as an unsolved murder, and that very pistol should be examined by our laboratory for any evidence it may reflect on that open murder case. I heard it’s a Springfield XD, very popular in the States for a variety of reasons, legal and not so legal. It comes in several calibers and sizes, and is extremely popular with shooters that vary in stature, experience and intention. The one you have, XD-S Mod.2, is a very slim single-stack firearm that makes a great handgun for people looking to carry a concealed weapon and is available in 9mm, .40sw, and .45 acp.
She was fully dressed at this time, but did not dim any and all ideas he had on his mind, a small studio of her looks at the pond, in the arch of a dive, the private parts of her in a glorious swoop heading into the pond from the nearby cliff, coming to him as pure as sex itself in flight, every untouchable inch of that lady.
Shelly Kearns, even in mid-flight, was quite aware of his intentions, the awe-struck way he had of looking onto her flights into water, explosive in their own right, headliner material all the way, not disputing any trace of his manhood loose at a normal inclination.
She said, in reply to his request to have the pistol tested, “Of course you can borrow it for test purposes, Chief, but if not found to be connected to an old cold case, it should be returned to me, as it does add some drama to my collection, like some mother with a child in her home might have tossed it into the pond to keep it from her son’s hands. Do you think it could be that simple, Chief? Or do you move in other directions? She could have tossed a curve at him to loosen his tongue, but let it go where his eyes lit up, in a daring craze of her physical beauty, her keen property of want and desire. He might have induced her with a direct onslaught; ‘I’d love to get you into my bed, dear beautiful lady,” and while she had no intentions of averting such want in men, for it rose also in her, how she dressed, how she employed the perfect dive as an entry into sex along with the water waiting,
She had been that quick with her husband, inducing him to such an approach; loving makes the world go round. She hurled that belief into flights of sex all fancied up. The chief, in his own right, was a fast riser, a good looker, intent on her since her loss, since his loss. It was apparent, they’d make good music as a pair, him not knowing how long her legs were, nor where they were merged, and how the attraction was endless., but bringing him elsewhere; It is so with
bloomers, changing, racing into new designs, exposures in advertisements, show reviews on modular runways for audiences, with chemise, crinoline, drawers, briefs, underpants, panties, scanties, step-in-to’s, bikini bottoms, and disappearing thongs, wondering “Just where in Hell have they gone to?”
It didn’t matter when it came about, but it came swiftly when he said, “Your bed or my bed? It does not matter where we find each other, as long as it is together, you the long-arching diver of impossible beauty and me, just a hungry man stirred by the endless beauty and attraction of a woman who carries her parts in the daring fashion of a performer at excellence, front and back, top and bottom, and all around the middle. I swear you are the most titillating woman on the face of this earth.”
There was not a second’s worth of fluster from her; “It must be at my home, in my bed, at your leisure or however you conduct such loose business when you bring back the pistol for my collection, now that I am another collectable in your collection, and me in your collection of ladies of the realm.”
Her eyes were lit up.
“I never had a ‘Yes’ like this one,” said the chief. It will be my honor to conduct our business at your house when I bring the pistol back, hoping of course that the laboratory says it is free of crime.”
The story doesn’t end here, for thereafter, for more than 50 years, if you can believe it, the impeccable pair has conducted the liveliest romance of any heard of in their local circles and the rest of the world, not another word in print, nor revealed in a boasting bar-side discussion, nor spoken in public by a single soul in this universe after the chief passed on, until she told me her side of the story, taking one whole day and one whole night at her place instead of mine.