Renee Jimson woke to the sun coming through her print
curtains and dappling her bed in light and shade.  The sun
had not yet reached her face, but she woke anyway.  It was
warm and comfortable in the bed and she didn't want to move.
     "Oh, well," she murmured to herself and in one move
tossed off her covers, swung her legs over the side of the
king-size bed and jumped to her feet.
     It was a mistake, she allowed as her body protested
against the vigourous movement.  What had been an almost
unnoticeable dull ache in her thigh burst into multi-coloured
flashes of pain.  Renee steadied herself, putting most of
her weight on her right leg.
     "Ah, hell," she spoke aloud to the stuffed tiger who
resided on her dresser, "you'd think I'd learn, wouldn't you?"
The tiger, if it thought anything of the kind, was too polite
to mention it.  She picked up the little toy and nuzzled it.
     "Thanks for watching over me.  I sleep better knowing that
you're here."  Renee yawned widely, then frowned as her left
cheek complained vociferously.  "Come on, Nietzsche, let's see
how much damage he did."
     Renee carefully made her way to the washroom and closed
the door behind her.  As she looked into the mirror above the sink
she frowned once again.  A large bruise decorated her left cheek,
courtesy of the Photographer.  She glared into the mirror.  He 
would pay for that.  Turning to the full-length mirror on the 
back of the door she winced at the much larger bruise on her
thigh.
     "Something else to remember you by," she said, more angry
at herself than at her assailant.  She had been overconfident
and she had paid the price.  Next time would be different.  She
shrugged at the sight and turned back to the sink.
     "'What does not kill me makes me stronger,' right, 
Nietzsche?" she asked the tiger, who now sat upon the counter.
Nietzsche, of course, said nothing.  He was the strong silent
type.
     Renee took a last look in the mirror.  Her grey eyes were
serious under the dark brows.  Her black hair hung down 
slightly lower than her shoulders, a little mussed by the 
night's sleep.  She stopped to take inventory, enjoying the
sight of her breasts, not small, not large, nipples erect in
the coolness of the morning air, pointing slightly upwards.
     She was in excellent shape, she knew--had to be, what with 
all the chasing around she did--and she enjoyed looking at her
body.  Enjoyed playing with it too, come to that--but that could
wait.  Yes, she was in excellent shape and her reflexes were
lightning fast yet, even so, The Photographer had been that 
fraction of a second ahead of her at almost every stage of the
fight.  She would have to do better--starting now.
     Her apartment had originally had three bedrooms, but she 
had had one of the walls taken out to give her a large exercise
room.  Within the room there was only a set of shelves containing
a variety of books and a mini-system.  She turned on the CD 
player and relaxed as the soft sounds of nature filled the room.
     Flowing with the sounds she focused her mind on her body, on
each set of muscles as she slipped into the moving meditation of
T'ai Chi.  This morning her movements were not so fluid as was
usual, her pains saw to that, but by the time she had completed
two sets the stiffness had been worked out of her muscles.
     The light sweat she had worked up gave a nice sheen to her
body.  One wall, covered in mirrors, gave mute testimony to
her beauty.  She glanced from herself to Nietzsche, who now sat
on one of the speakers, admiring her nude body.
     "Like what you see?" she asked the tiger.  She hefted a
breast, all the better for him to appreciate it, and grinned.
The grin faded as she recalled how The Photographer had done
likewise, her helpless against the indignity.  "Bastard!" she
whispered.
     Her body now limbered, Renee began the more intensive
stretching of her Yoga.  Her meditation was deeper now and her
body did as it was required.  Morning exercises were vital
to keeping supple and alert.  She had been a little less than 
exacting lately.  No more.

     Breakfast was fruit.  With deft strokes she cut up a
delicious salad of apple, orange, grapefruit, kiwi and a bit
of everything else she had in the house.
     " . . . . tomorrow.  And for those just getting up, it
appears that The Photographer has struck once again, and 
although the Hub City Police were on the spot quickly, he eluded
capture one more time."  The radio announcer had that fatally
cheerful morning voice of all morning announcers.  "Our sources
at the Hub City Police Department tell us that Lady Margot's
famous necklace was taken from her.  Lady Margot, as you may
recall, is in town for the opening of the new Opera House.
In this latest crime, The Photographer has upped the ante.
This was a 'home-invasion' style robbery, for Lady Margot and
the Beltons, with whom she was staying, were home during the
incident.  They were tied, then The Photographer made off
with the jewelry.  Police are keeping the details under wraps,
but a source states that they had an anonymous tip which
sent them to the scene of the crime mere minutes after it 
occurred.  We can only hope that the next time the Police will
arrive to catch this villain in the act.
     "Now, on the weather front we are expecting unsettled
conditions to continue for today and tomorrow, stability 
returning on the weekend."
     Renee turned off the radio.  An anonymous tip?  Ha!
That tip had come from The Photographer himself, she knew.
Had she been any slower getting out the police would have
found her at the scene and her identity--or at least her
description--would now be public knowledge.  There were 
altogether too many leaks from Police Headquarters.  She
laughed mirthlessly to herself.  At the time she had wondered
at the very quick response to Lady Margot's call.  She no
longer wondered.  The Photographer had, apparently, something
against her.
     While turning on the shower she puzzled on that.  He had
certainly had the opportunity to turn on the light and see her
face uncovered yet had neglected to do so.  There would have
been no threat from the Police, they were sleeping peacefully
outside.  She, of course, was beaten and cuffed to the bannister
and, thus, posed no threat.  Why had he not?  Of course, had
he done so, she would have seen his face as well.
     The shower was soothing.  Renee loved the feel of her hands
slipping over the soapy breasts.  There was that certain 
slickness that sent tingles of anticipation running through her.
The hot water cascaded against her back as her forefingers
traced small circles over her areolae, occasionally rubbing
against the hardness of her nipples.  And on every such 
occasion her breath caught.
     Circle, circle, circle, a fuzzy voice chanted in her
mind.  Yes, circle, then slip away to stroke the breast, topside,
underside, slip down over the stomach, up over the shoulder then
return to circle, circle, circle.
     The warm buzz from the occasional touch was awaking the
lust within her.  It appeared, she smiled lazily, that this
short shower was going to slip into one of luxury and joy.
As if that were a surprise.
     One hand slipped down and began to slide over her mound
touching her lips, stroking ever so gently.  Her other hand
was in constant motion now, running over her breasts, her
stomach, behind to her ass, down the furrow to that little
pucker . . . tease and move, tease and move.
     Breath coming in gasps.  Small spasms.  Breasts jiggling.
Oh, yes.  How nice.  Close, oh so close.  Bent over slightly,
breasts hanging, hand working.  Other hand slipping back,
fingering the pucker, teasing all the little nerve endings.
Straightening up, head back under the shower, stream coming
down her front, washing the soap down and off.  A single stream
of water struck her outstretched nipple and she jerked.  Oh,
god!  She moved back to let it happen again but she was shaking,
spasming too much for the stream to make more than momentary
contact.
     Renee groaned.  She loved feeling those little rushes,
now built into bigger rushes; the small currents feeding one
another until, like now, they were large currents; the wavelets
building to the waves which now rocked her body.  Her breath
caught, body stiffened.  She shuddered, the waves, currents
and rushes released, held back no longer.
     "Ohh!"  The wail rose and fell, faded and disappeared.
It was a lovely way to start the day, she thought, when her
reasoning mind returned.  That mind floated down and she
finished the shower and stepped into the cooler air of the
bathroom.

     There were seven new messages, the computer screen told
her.  They downloaded and Renee broke the connection with her
severer.  As was to be expected these days, three of the
messages were spam.  "As if I really need to be able to
subliminally seduce women," she scoffed.  Three of the others
were from clients and the final one was from her anonymous
remailer.  She decoded it.

          Dark Damsel:
     
     As soon as you are able I need to hear from you as
     to what went on at the Belton mansion and why your 
     cycle was found on the Belton grounds.  If you have 
     any information that we could use, I'd appreciate 
     hearing from you soonest.

                          Thanks.

     PS: Your motorcycle has been put in the usual spot.
         Pick it up at your convenience.

     The message wasn't signed.  The header stated it came
from the nym identity "A Friend".  It was, she knew, from
Commissioner Delcourt.  What would she tell him?  She would
consider that later.
     The doorbell rang.  It would be Brenda, her assistant
and second in command, so to speak.  Renee Jimson ran a small
desktop publishing shop.  Most of her work came from students
at the near-by Hub City University, but some also came from
authors who wished to see their works published.  Most of the
typing Renee farmed out to several part-time workers, but she
did some of it herself, especially if the subject matter
interested her.  It was amazing what one could learn by reading
the papers as she typed them.  Some of what she read was put
to good use by Dark Damsel.
     "Hi Brenda.  You're early today," Renee greeted her
friend and assistant.  Brenda was going to University part
time as a mature student, even though she was only twenty-five,
and working for Renee helped pay for it.
     "Class canceled," Brenda explained, tossing her blond
hair back over her shoulders.  "Got anything interesting today?"
     "You've finished Mr. Smith's paper?  God, that was quick,
considering his hand-writing."  Renee grinned at the taller
woman.  "Sure, I've something more interesting than that, and I
may be asking you to do a little extra work as well," she winked
at Brenda.
     Brenda laughed, "I don't know how you do it, Renee.  
Another one?  Just don't forget to take precautions," she warned
the older woman--okay, so she was only two years older, but those
two years were enough to give the relationship a running joke.  
"You don't want your night life to be ruined by a baby," she 
lectured, a knowing grin plastered on her face, "now do you?  A
woman your age . . ." her voice trailed off as she caught her 
first glance of the left side of Renee's face.
     "What happened?"  Brenda was deadly serious now.  "This new
guy of yours, did he do that?"
     You might say that, Renee thought to herself.  "No, of 
course not.  I got mugged last night . . . well, it was a 
would-be mugger.  I'm sure he looks worse.  I'll be damned if
I'll give any pathetic little thief my hard earned money . . ."
she allowed the thought to go unfinished, hoping Brenda would buy
the excuse.  She turned around and began sorting through the 
small stack of papers.
     "Did you report it?"  Brenda wasn't about to let this go.
     "Commissioner Delcourt was my father's closest friend,
Brenda.  I still call him 'Uncle Teddy', so what do you think?"
A little misdirection wouldn't hurt.  "You can't report it any
higher than that, can you?"
     Brenda was mollified.  "I guess not.  So, the police are
working on it?"
     Renee didn't have to lie now.  "Oh, they're working on it
all right.  No doubt about it, they are after the man."  And 
they were, but not because of what had happened to her.
     "Good."  Brenda was emphatic.  "Oughta be more Cops out
there making the streets safe.  Now, what do you have for me?"
She accepted a sheaf of papers from Renee.  "Awright!  Just up
my ally.  So, now, let me guess.  You'll be keeping odd hours
and may not show up here for days at a time, poor girl, so you
want your good friend Brenda to make sure everything runs 
smoothly until you ditch this guy like you do all the others,
right?"
     "Brenda," Renee put on her best sorrowful look, "what have
I ever done to make you think this of me?"
     "Not a thing," Brenda apologized, struggling hard to keep
a straight face, "I'm very sorry."  She didn't sound at all 
sorry.
     "But you're right," Renee sighed.  "That's exactly what
I want you to do.  You know the drill."
     "You're so organized it's hardly worth the extra pay . . .
no, wait, I didn't say that," Brenda laughed.  "Yes, I know the
drill.  Want me to start getting a handle now?"
     "Please.  I have some work to do in the other room."
     While Brenda busied herself at Renee's business computer,
Renee slipped back into her bedroom and booted up her Notebook
again.

     She typed her answer to Commissioner Delcourt.

     Sir:
         Will explain more later.  Ran into the Photographer
     but came out second best.  Hope to have a lead later
     this day.  
         Thanks for moving the bike.
         Be in touch later,
         
         DD

     She encoded the message and sent it on its way through
the remailers.  
     Hope to have a lead later.  Yeah, right.  A small 
possibility that her secret hideaway had been found and a
reasonable photograph obtained.  She'd go there after nightfall.


     Dark Damsel gazed at the building across the way.  She had
to go in and see if her hideaway had been discovered, yet every 
fibre of her being screamed that there could be a trap set up
for her.  She had been followed last night, no doubt about it.
That she had lost her follower before arriving here--great doubt.
     Dark Damsel shrugged.  She glided across the street, leapt
for the fire escape and made her way up to the unlocked window.
It was locked.  She ground her teeth in frustration, then climbed
up to the roof, defeated the lock on the door and slipped down
the stairs, every sense in high gear.
     Nothing.  The secret door was just ahead.  Her hand reached
for the disguised handle then came away.  Not a wise move.  She
retraced her steps and climbed up a flight.  The hideaway had
a second entrance, a trap door.  She would use it.  
     None of her telltales had been disturbed and she felt 
certain that if her hideaway had been compromised, it hadn't
been from this direction.
     After using her flash to see what she could, Dark Damsel
lowered herself through the trap and to the floor.  Nothing 
looked disturbed.  She turned on the floor lamp and light 
flooded the windowless room.
     "Damn!"  Her camera lay on the table, opened, film gone.
A large envelope lay on the table.  She didn't touch it, didn't
move.  Slowly, carefully, her eyes searched out every square
inch of space, looking for anything amiss.  There was nothing.
She crept about looking under this and that, touching nothing,
wary.  Still nothing.  Nothing but the envelope on the table.
     She looked closer.  The large manila envelope bore two
words:  Dark Damsel.
     Cursing herself for a fool, she reached for it.  It was
a 10" by 13" envelope.  She stopped, stepped back and removed
a small spool of weighted wire rope from her pouch.  She tossed
the weight onto the table and slowly dragged it back, pulling
the envelope onto the floor.  Nothing.  Nothing except moving
the envelope uncovered a slip of paper.  She stepped forward
and read the note.

     Dear Dark Damsel:
          One Photographer to another, I couldn't bring myself
   to take your camera.  On the other hand I couldn't allow 
   myself to be photographed so I took your film.  That, of  
   course, wasn't fair, and I do want to be fair about this, 
   so I left you some *developed* film in its place.  A fair 
   trade is no thievery, not so?
          Enjoy.

     There was no signature.  With a trembling hand, Dark Damsel
opened the envelope and slid out several 8x10s.  She glowered.
They were of her.  The top one was a picture taken a year or 
two ago.  She had just broken up a gang that had robbed several 
banks.  She looked good.  In the second she was sprawled on
the floor of the Belton Manor, just raising herself to her
elbows.  Gritting her teeth she looked at the third.  Dark
Damsel appeared in the photo, left arm over her head, handcuffed 
to the bannister.  Lady Margot's diamonds graced her neck.  The 
final one showed her, Dark Damsel, defeated, hanging from her
wrist.
     Carefully, quietly, Dark Damsel replaced the photographs
in the envelope, picked up the hand-written note and placed it
there as well.  She left by the door, knowing now that it 
wouldn't be booby-trapped.  This man wanted to humiliate her.
Killing her wouldn't be good enough for him.  She was his
special target.  
     With an anxious feeling in the pit of her stomach, Dark
Damsel made her way to the 'Garage on 5th'.  She slipped in
through the side door, using the key she had been given.
     
     "Hi, Ray."  The grizzled looking mechanic looked up
at Dark Damsel's entrance.  A big smile replaced the scowl
he had been wearing.
     "Dark Damsel!"  His eyes went up and down her body,
an affirmation of her effect on him.  "Good to see you again.
She's all ready for you.  Put in a new battery and did some
routine maintenance."  Ray found it a struggle to keep his
eyes on her face.  Such nice curves were not to been seen
just anywhere, and the tightness of Dark Damsel's costume
left little to the imagination.
     "Thanks Ray.  Appreciate it." 
     "Not a problem," he allowed.  Then he gave her a more
serious look.  "Got anything for us?"
     Dark Damsel grinned at him.  "For you Ray, always," she
husked and was delighted to see him take in his breath in
response.  She loved to tease him.  "One of my sources,"
she continued evenly, "thinks you ought to check out 412-9th,
Apartment 7B.  Be careful.  They play for keeps, or so my
source tells me.  But be quick, they seldom stay in any place
for more than a few days."
     "Thanks, Damsel, we appreciate that.  Not going to go in
yourself?"
     "Not this time, Ray.  I'm working on something else that
requires my full attention."  She gave him the benefit of a
smile.
     "So I hear.  You take care . . . Jesus!"  Ray stepped
forward to get a closer look at her face.  Apparently she wasn't
the master of disguise she had thought she was.  He had spotted
the bruise through the make-up.
     "You play with the big boys, you have to take your lumps,
time to time," she said lightly.
     Ray wasn't buying it.  He was angry and Renee loved him
for it.  "You put out the word and if we ever have him we'll 
take him for a walk around the block."
     The Damsel knew he was serious and knew that Ray and his
partners would do a job on anyone she pointed out.
     She grinned at him, not feeling like grinning.  "Type of
man I could fall for," she winked.  "But they'd take away your
Commendation for Service Above and Beyond, Ray.  We couldn't have
that, now, could we?" 
     "Your call, Dark Damsel."  He wasn't laughing.  "What's 
that?" his attention went to the envelope.
     "A gift from a friend."  She smiled and turned it over.  
Only then did she see what was written in small letters in the 
bottom corner.  Her smile faded.  "Borrow your computer for a
bit, Ray?"
      He waved her magnanimously to the seat he had vacated when
she had entered.  She looked once more at the envelope.  Ray
moved back to give her privacy.  He knew when to leave her alone.
      Renee clicked on the browser and the Web came up, home 
page: Hub City Police Department.  She typed in the address 
written on the envelope. http://www.super-heroine.com/~bzx/dd
She knew of the site.  It featured pictures of costumed heroines
and models made up to look like those heroines.  Many of those
latter were in stages of undress or worse.  The site also offered
fan fiction.  There were some sick puppies out there.  Some of
the stories, on the other hand, were quite erotic and she, too,
had enjoyed one or another from time to time.  
     There was one writer whose passion was Minx, a blonde 
bombshell whose position vis-a-vis the law was questionable.  No 
one had caught her breaking it . . . yet.  That writer was quite 
good and Dark Damsel read everything he (or was it she?) wrote.
     There had even been a few stories about her, some of them
quite raw.  Mostly she avoided those.  She could do without them.
     The page came up.  Dark Damsel's expression changed from
wary to bleak.

          THE END OF DARK DAMSEL

     The caption spread across the photograph that she had in
her envelope, the one of her smiling as the bank gang were
placed in the paddy wagon.  She clicked on the continue button
and wasn't at all surprised to see the other photos of her
from the night before.  The Photographer moved quickly, she
realized with some dismay.  And she wouldn't be able to track
him through this site.  Anyone could post stories or pictures
here as long as the owner of the site allowed it, and there
wasn't much he wouldn't allow.  Were she to go in and 
investigate it would be apparent (and the news would be 
widespread in milliseconds) that those pictures were truly
of her and not of a model dressed like her.