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“From the once famous Connor Hotel ballroom, I’m Rene Williams for Action News,” there was a pause then, “Got it, Doug?”

“Yes ma’am. Looked good.”

“Great, but I want more. There’s got to be so many stories in here. We’ve been on the rooftop terrace, in the bar, the ballroom…”

“Well, there’s always the sub-basement.”

“Yeah? What’s down there?”

Cameraman Doug Stockton smiled. “Lots of history. Racy stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Well, my ex-wife gave up her cherry to me there 15 years ago.”

The reporter frowned and threw her empty water bottle at him. “C’mon. Anything real?”

“Rumor has it that Bonnie and Clyde stashed some of their loot down there before their shootout in the spring of ’33.”

“There’s a safe?”

“Oh, more than a safe, a vault.”

“You mean like Geraldo and Capone’s vault?

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Okay, tell me more.”

“Uh, let’s see, for a couple of years during Prohibition the sub-basement was the classiest speakeasy in the four states.

“After Prohibition, sometime in the 40’s city councilman J. Edgerton Bentley was caught ‘in flagrante delicto’ with Ms. Marilil Butler, a debutante betrothed to one of the scions of the one the most prominent society families in town.”

“And just what does ‘in flagrante delicto’ mean in this instance?” The reporter asked wearily and somewhat sarcastically, cocking her head toward her cameraman.

She was hot and tired and desperately wanted to leave the building but she also wanted more of a story.

“Well, the story goes that the honorable J. Edgerton Bentley was seated on a bench in the vault while the lovely, young and completely naked Marilil Butler knelt naked before him, giving him a hummer…”

The reporter looked disgusted, mumbled something under her breath and waved dismissively to her cameraman while searching impatiently for something in her “gig” bag. “Oh, yeah, we’re going to air with *that* story. How old are you anyway? 12?”

Doug laughed, “Wait! Wait, it gets better.

“J. Edgerton was nearly 60 years old. Marilil was said to be truly beautiful and a coquettish 20. The hummer was about to, uh, come, no pun intended, to fruition when Jasper County Sheriff Waldo Monahan and Mrs. J. Edgerton Bentley burst in upon the couple.

“J. Edgerton, who positively hated Sheriff Monahan because the Sheriff was banging Mrs. J. Edgerton Bentley silly and none to discretely from here to Carthage, pulled a Colt pistol from his vest pocket and shot the Sheriff dead.

“Whereupon Mrs. J. Edgerton Bentley plunged a dagger into J. Edgerton’s chest dealing him a fatal blow.

“The less than virginal Miss Marilil was said to be in a corner of the vault, screaming hysterically, whilst J. Edgerton, his hand on the fatal dagger, looked up into his wife’s eyes and said plaintively, “You damn fool woman, you done gone and kilt me. Why’d you have and go and do that for Marlene?”

Despite herself, the reporter laughed.

Seeing his reporter responding so well to the story, Doug continued, “Mrs. Bentley’s retort, if any, is not known, but she then picked up her husband’s pistol and shot Marilil.”

“Oh my god? Did she kill her too?” The reporter was wide eyed.

“No. No, Marilil lived. At Mrs. Bentley’s trial, when asked why she shot Marilil, Mrs. Bentley said, “The stupid little twit wouldn’t stop screaming. Besides, I only winged her. The brutes from the hotel came in and wrestled me off before I could kill her.”

The reporter felt her face flush and she tried to suppress a laugh but couldn’t, “That’s terrible!”

“Ah-Hah! You like this stuff! Admit it!”

“I will not! I still don’t see how we can use this, even if any of this is true.” Barely suppressing a giggle the reporter tried to look serious, tried to get back on point.

“What else have you got?” And once again she couldn’t help herself, “Oh hell, whatever happened to Marilil?” Rene Williams burst into a full laugh.

“Marilil was sent back East to suffer her indiscretions in shame. The bullet did just wing her. But her social rehabilitation was less than successful and the legend has it she became a notorious madam in Boston.

“And, let’s see, there’s the poker game of ’58 between the U.S. Senators of Missouri, Kansas, Arkansas and Oklahoma…”

The reporter grabbed her gig bag, smiled wearily and motioned to the cameraman, “Lead the way. We’ll do one more stand up in,” she blew out air in mock exasperation, “the sub-basement.”


The Connor Hotel, built in 1908, was less than 24 hours away from its demise; it was going to be imploded before it fell down. It had been the jewel of Joplin, Missouri’s society life from 1908 until the end of the 40’s. After the 40’s she became a dowager down on her luck. She closed in 1969 and no one could resurrect her.

Inside, the demolition crew was checking charges and the fusing and setting the detonators.

Outside at the barricades, older people stood silent and misty eyed, remembering the hotel in its heyday and consequently reminiscing about their cevizli escort lives.

Younger people, who had no sense of history, milled about expectantly waiting for the “big bang.” Street vendors hawked cotton candy, hot dogs and soda. And the other two TV stations of the area had reporters doing live stand ups for the 6 and 10 newscasts.

The third station in town, number one in the market, had enough weight to get permission to do reports from inside the hotel. The only conditions were that the reporter and cameraman could not do live reports or use a radio or cell phone inside the building for fear of setting off the radio controlled detonators that were being set in the final 24 hours.

The news director called on his new senior reporter, a woman from a network affiliate in Kansas City, to do the “biggest story in his lifetime.”

Rene Williams rolled her eyes as she pointed out to her new boss, only four years out of journalism school, that he hadn’t lived that long.

Rene Williams was tall and willowy with cropped platinum blond hair. She was in her early 40’s and compared to the other stations’ younger assignment reporters she wasn’t as attractive.

Worse than being unattractive, the marketing consultants said she was “plain.”

Rene Williams was a serious journalist. And while she knew that age and looks for a woman in local TV news were important she always thought the quality of her work would compensate. One day, she thought, she might find herself doing network news.

She never understood the fact that work quality, at least in the market she was in, would not completely compensate for her age and plain looks. That is, until she found her contract being sold to the number one station in Joplin, Missouri because the marketing consultant said her ratings were “trending lower” than the younger female reporters that were not only eye catching to the viewer but costing considerably less in salary and benefits.

Southwest Missouri: the proverbial “sticks.”

But Rene tried to put the best face on her situation as she could. Maybe after one of the Yuppie spawn that trained at being anchors in these smaller markets moved on to a larger market as a reporter she’d spend her final on-air days behind the anchor desk.



They moved single file through a narrow corridor, lit only by one bare light bulb hanging from improvised wiring.

The walls were brick from 1908 and they were slimy with condensation. They were two levels below the street, the basement and 9 stories of building above them.

The corridor opened out into a large room with an arched brick ceiling; the air was dank. In one corner was the entrance to the vault, black and foreboding.

The cameraman stood next to the reporter at the threshold of the room. “This was the speakeasy; I’ve seen pictures of it during Prohibition, it was really quite classy. Maybe you could get some archival shots from the University.

“Over there is the vault. Come on.”

He took her hand. She was surprised at the familiarity her cameraman was showing her. She didn’t know him – or anyone at the station – particularly well. But she was fascinated and there was something about the room that echoed the past he had told her about like familiar spirits.

When they got to the door of the vault he pulled out a high powered flashlight and shone it inside.

Safe deposit boxes lined the back wall. A heavy round, oak table stood in the center of the rectangular room and padded benches were built along each wall.

“Doug, how are we going to do this?”

“Well, ah, we could, ah, we could start at the threshold of the speakeasy and just kinda tour around and end up in the vault.”

“Okay, okay, I get the visual but I still don’t know what to say that either the FCC or the local ministerial alliance won’t have a screaming fit about.”

Just as Doug was going to offer another suggestion he heard something up the corridor.

“Wait…” he said. He looked back up the dimly lit corridor.

There was silence.

Then a rumble that was more felt than heard. The light bulb halfway up the corridor shook.

“Doug, uh, what was that?”

“I don’t know but I think, Ms. Williams, we’ve got all the story we’re getting, let’s make like a tree and leave! Now!”

They started to run to the corridor when suddenly the rumble that was felt was now heard. The light bulb in the corridor vanished. It didn’t go out. It was engulfed in a rapidly moving cloud of falling brick and mortar.

“Back in the vault!” He threw his camera and pushed her with both hands toward the vault door and then dove after her.

The crashing sound of brick and mortar, timbers and ancient plumbing works built to a deafening crescendo.

They scrambled on their hands and knees and lay on their bellies, hands covering each other’s heads, under the oak table in the center of the vault.

The darkness was absolute. And then so was the silence, punctuated by their coughing.

“Rene. erenköy escort Rene… I can’t see you, are you okay?” His voice was urgent though he held her by the shoulders, could hear her coughing and feel her rapid breathing.

“Yeah… Yeah… I’m okay I think. You?”

“Uh,” he moved his body away from hers and pulled his flashlight out, shining it full in her face, “yeah, I think so…”

“Do you mind?!” She was squinting intensely.

“Oh, sorry.” He laughed nervously, “You’re awfully dusty, you know.”

Her retort was caustic, “As soon as I can SEE, I imagine you are too.”

He shone the light at the door of the vault. There was a wall of brick and debris almost to the top of the vault door.

She rolled over on her back and propped up on her elbows squinted at the wall where the door had once been.

“Jesus…” she whispered. “Doug is your camera still working. This is going to make the national news mags!”

Doug did not immediately respond.


“When I heard the collapse I chucked the camera and pushed you in here. And before you scream at me for ruining your chance to go national, I did save your life.”

“Oh, Doug…” her voice trailed off.


10 stories of the Connor Hotel rested upon the sub- basement. And Rene Williams and Doug Stockton. A support beam had buckled and the whole hotel collapsed in upon itself without need of high explosives.

The reporter and her cameraman held their breath for a while; waiting for another collapse but none came.

After another while they crawled out from under the table and took stock of their situation.

In the light of Doug’s flashlight there was a thick layer of dust covering everything – thicker than when they came in – and dust still floating in the air.

Miraculously the debris stopped at the door. A second miracle was that they could feel air coming in from a vent in the back wall. They probably wouldn’t suffocate.

Rene sat her gig bag on the table. She had two bottles of water, a half eaten bran muffin, a half eaten tuna sandwich and some Tic Tacs. They each took a bottle of water.

“What? Don’t you want the muffin or the sandwich?”

“It’s been a long standing policy that I don’t eat muffins and as for the tuna,” he held the cellophane wrapped sandwich in the flashlight beam, “how long have you been carrying this thing around?!”

She took it, turning it in the light, “Uh, just a couple of days.”

“Ah. Well. It’s yours.”

They each dusted off a spot on a bench and sat to wait.

Doug turned off the flashlight and once again the darkness was absolute.

“Doug, when’s the last time you saw anyone from the demolition crew?”

“As we were coming down from the rooftop terrace heading for the ballroom.”

“So, no one has a clue as to where we might be.”

There was a long pause.

“Yeah, I guess so.”


He had no idea how much time had passed; his watch had broken in the scramble for cover. He opened his eyes into the total darkness.

“Doug? You still with me?”

“Yeah. I guess I dozed off. How long’s it been?”

“A couple of hours.”

“Have you heard anything?”

“No, not so much as a creaking timber. We could be here for… for a long time.”

Doug was guilt-strickened, not so much by the fact they were trapped in the sub-basement; Rene wanted more story.

He was feeling bad over tossing the camera. This would have made all the national news feeds. “Look, Rene, I’m sorry…for all of this.”

It was a while before Rene said anything.

“Doug,” the voice was soft, gentle in the engulfing darkness, “I’m bitter not shallow, okay? I’m bitter about trending lower than the pretty girls out of journalism school. I couldn’t compete any more in the big market according to the suits so here I am…Yeah, it would have been something if you had your camera in here but we’re alive. That’s what matters. Nothing else.”

Doug didn’t know what to else to say. Rene did not make conversation.

Once again there was silence.


Sometime later there was a small gasp in the darkness that snapped Doug out of his semi-sleep.

He started to call her name but she spoke first.

“Doug, tell me about taking your ex’s cherry.”

“Uh, okay. We, uh, found a way in and came down here and I took her on the…”

“No Doug,” she interrupted, her voice quiet but firm, “give me details. Be…be explicit.”

Doug wasn’t quite sure what to make of this. He was a small town TV cameraman; always would be. He was content. He had no illusions of fame and bigger money in bigger markets. And now, here was a “star” reporter, who had always seemed so prim and proper and all business asking for intimate details of his sex life.

“Well, uh,” he laughed nervously, “you know, gentlemen never tell.”

“Doug,” a gentle note of sarcasm in her voice, you told me when we were upstairs she gave it up for you down here. So you’ve already said esenyurt escort more than you should…if you’re claiming gentleman status.”

“Uh, okay…what do you want to know?”


Doug heard another small gasp and then a liquid “snicking” sound he couldn’t immediately identify.

“Everything,” she said.

“Well, we came down here. We did a lot of kissing and petting…”

“Did she like it rough? Where were you kissing and petting? Against the wall, on the floor?”

“Both. Yes, she wanted me to be rough.”

“Did you give her a hickey?” she quietly laughed.

“Oh, yeah,” he laughed quietly too, getting into the memory.

“Did she strip for you?”

“No. I pulled her T-shirt off her and pushed her bra up over her breasts.

“I wanted her so badly.

“I had her pressed against the wall, against the safe deposit boxes. God…she was sucking my tongue, I was holding her breasts in my hands, pulling her nipples.”

“Go on.”

“I laid her on the floor and pulled her jeans off then I laid down beside her, still frenching her, rubbing her tits and also rubbing her crotch through her panties…”

“Did she ask you to fuck her or did you just take her?”

Rene’s voice had gotten thick and breathy. Doug suddenly realized he was hard. Quietly he unzipped his pants and pulled his cock out so he could jack himself.

“Doug, did she ask you to fuck her or did you just take her?”

“Uh, uh…she asked…”

“What’d she say?”

“She said, ‘I want your cock in my pussy…please.'”

“I bet it didn’t take you long. You’ve always struck me as a horn dog.”

“A horn dog? You’ve noticed…?”


“No it didn’t take long. I quickly shucked out of my jeans, pushed her thighs apart, puller her panties…”

“What kind of panties was she wearing, Doug?”

“Uh, cotton. White cotton panties.”

“What did it feel like to penetrate her?”

Doug was silent…his memories being translated straight to his cock.

“What do you think is the more arousing, erotic word, Doug, ‘penetrate’ or ‘mount’? Hey Doug, I can hear too you know; don’t come yet.”

Doug was suddenly very shocked. He realized they were both masturbating.

“Was she very wet?”

“Oh my god! Yes…she was so soaked and swollen.”

“Then ‘mount,’ would be the more erotic word, in this case, to describe taking your ex-wife? Don’t you think?

“Were you bareback or did you have protection?”


“Ahhhh,” she gasped and let out a low moan. “Bareback. So… You were *mounting your bitch*…Maybe going to *breed* her? What did the penetration feel like?” The quality of Rene’s voice had changed again; it was quiet, demanding, getting a bit ragged.

“It was indescribable…soft, wet, hot. I hit her hymen…”

“Ah, God, she had a hymen? You really did pop her…wow. Was there blood? Did she cry out?”

“She screamed. There was blood. She came quickly. I did too.”

“So you blew your load in her cunt. Did you like how that felt?”

“Uh, yeah…”

He was so close and from the sounds of things across the vault she was too. Suddenly he stopped.

“Doug, don’t turn on your flashlight. You can get my position from my voice. Roll your flashlight to me.”


The flashlight clattered across the floor. She picked it up, turned it on and immediately shined the light in his face.

He was blinded.

Then there was her voice, standing in front of him, “Doug, hold your cock straight up.”

The light went out. Total darkness punctuated by the sounds of their heavy breathing and the rustling of her clothes.

She raised her skirt, pulled the crotch of her panties aside, straddled Doug’s legs and settled onto Doug’s hard on, her hands loosely holding the back of his neck.

“Ohhhhhh, God Doug, you feel so goooood inside me.”

Doug was having trouble forming words.

The slick warmth of her pussy encased him.

Her lingering perfume mixed with her sweat and the strong musk from her cunt settled into a cloud around him.

He pressed his face into her chest. She stroked his hair and slowly rocked her pelvis – once – eliciting a moan from both of them.

“Take my top off Doug.”

His hands were already heading that direction. He found bare skin at her waist and was gently holding her there.

She rocked her pelvis again, this time leveraging herself by pulling his neck toward her.

He found the hem of her top and pulled upward. She released his neck long enough for the top to come off her arms.

His hands went to her bra, a silky but substantial feeling under wire affair. It had a front clasp. He fumbled with it.

Her hands were back around his neck, gently pulling and caressing the hair at his collar line.

Doug continued to struggle. She rocked again.

“Uh…Jesus… You know, I haven’t had to deal with bra clasps since, uh, since college.”

She nuzzled his ear and breathed, laughed softly, “Just push it up. I like it rough too.”

She rocked again.

God, the feelings were electric.

She was so on the edge. His pants were rough against the inside of her thighs. His belt buckle was riding against her mound, right above her clit. His pubic hair was kinky and ticklish against her shaven mound and clit and the texture of his shirt felt good against her naked belly.

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