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I assured her I would be careful. I asked if she had thought of anything else that she wanted to tell me, since she'd had a chance to sleep on it. I fought down the mental picture of Bridgett, not just laying on her bed, but flowing over it. Taking possession of it, each time she lay down. Man, the matress must really sink down when she crawled onto the bed. What would it be like to be between her and the bed? O.K., O.K., so it took 3 hard rounds to fight down the images. Whats it to ya, anyway?

Bridgett said that she actually had thought of something else that I should know. Just then Ms. Robinson walked into the room. While she looked much better than the file photos showed, there was still a hint of the swelling and bruising left from the attack on her. The thought of what she had gone through caused a flash of deep, burning anger at the chickenshit low life that had purposefully inflicted such pain, all for the potential payoff of a few dollars. I put those thoughts in a box and made a professional assessment of her condition. Penelope Robinson was 5 foot 11 to 6 feet tall, with blond wavy hair that brushed the top of her shoulders. She had dark brown eyes and had taken the time to lightly apply some makeup before coming out to meet me. It looked like the makeup covered most of the nearly faded bruises. Ms. Robinson had a pretty, round face with a very nice smile that grew as she crossed the room. She was wearing a plain white t shirt. Her stomach, under the t shirt, jiggled as she walked, threatening to break my concentration. Before yesterday, I would have called it a big stomach. The bright orange halter, under her t shirt, was making the fluid movement of her breasts almost hypnotic. Her waist narrowed, then flaired into hips that that in any other company would have been huge, but were probably 2/3 the width of Bridgett's. Her matching bright orange short shorts, exposed a pair of long, powerful looking legs. The fact that women's legs, given similar size and training are stronger than men's, chose that moment to fly through my conciousness. She probably weighed 260 pounds. Hospital food must not have agreed with her. Ms. Robinson was carrying what most people these days would call extra weight, but she looked like a big, healthy girl, to me.

I stood and introduced myself, looking up into her face while shaking hands. Her grip was not nearly as powerful as Bridgett's had been, but then, while she seemed to be about as tall as Bridgett, she was about half as broad. I glanced back at Bridgett, briefly wondering if she may be a bit heavier than I first thought.

She too asked me to call her by her first name, saying "Please, call me Penelope." Then Penelope turned to Bridgett, gave her a bright smile, and said "Hey Brige, you were right. He is a little cutie." I wasn't quite sure how to take the "little cutie" part, but it seemed that we were getting off to a positive start, so I didn't comment on it.

Bridgett surprised me then, standing up and moving toward the door. She said that she had to get back to work and she would get in touch with me later. She also said she would check in with Penelope, to see how she was doing. I had been wondering how I was going to interview Penelope, with Bridgett there. Her leaving solved a potential problem for me. Maybe things were swinging back my way, after all. When I scooted back to let her by, she glanced me up and down, looked down into me eyes with a little, knowing kind of smile. I wasn't sure, of course, but I thought I may be able to quit sweating the call from the headhunters, ah, I mean Internal Affairs. Bridgett didn't seem at all upset by my presence. In fact, she seemed to be far more comfortable than most people were, in the presence of a detective investigating a murder. I'd give that some thought, later.

I have to tell you, as Bridgett passed by, I felt very small between these two towers of warm, soft feminine flesh, except in one predictable place. If they had decided to hug goodby, I would have ended up like a bug on a windshield. I wonder if that would be bad? I had to get it together quick, to interview Penelope.

We sat back down and started the interview. Penelope confirmed everything from the previous statement. She did add that Bridgett had blamed herself, for the attack. Bridgett thought if she had been there, instead of pushing out a few more sets, it wouldn't have happened.

Penelope said she had been lifting weights with Bridgett for about a year. She was getting good at it and really enjoyed it. The exercise relaxed her and she said that seeing her muscles toning and building, made her feel powerful and attractive. She glanced over at me when when she said that. She seemed to be searching my face for some kind of a reaction. She caught me looking over the body she had worked so hard, on. Her eyes flicked over me, seeming to linger around my waist. She gave a small , kind of embarrassed laugh and looked away. Penelope paused and when she looked back at me there were tears in her eyes. She said that the weight lifting hadn't helped her when "that bastard" attacked her, did it? As much as she enjoyed the workouts, she really wasn't sure if she would keep going, especially if she was alone. Penelope started to sob openly.

I will never get used to the pain that stays inside a victim, undermining their ability to go on with the regular, normal, everyday things that most of us take for granted. It just rips me up, inside. I sat on the arm of the sofa, next to her and tried to calm her down. I told her about some of the victims services and counselling that were available and even mentioned the self defense class that some of the guys and I put on for the community. The class was started for victims of assaults. Most of the people in the class were still assault victims. We taught simple defensive techniques and the students met people that had had similar experiences. I told her that she was welcome to come to the next class, tomorrow night, if she wanted to. If she didn't feel up to participating yet, that was O.K., she could just watch. I mentioned that she had been training her body, but had not taught her muscles what actions to take. When confronted with a situation that is beyond our experience, we all revert to basic programming. Fight or flight. She hadn't learned the fighting part, so she tried to flee. Thats all, and it was normal. That's why the Police and members of the Armed Forces are taught hand to had fighting techniques, then given regular refreshers.

She dried her eyes with the tissue that I found for her, and apologized for breaking down. She got up to get a drink and walked to the kitchen. Her ass was wide and beautiful, only partly covered by her shorts. It looked soft and strong, at the same time. When she came back, her t shirt had been drawn tight across, and tied under her large breasts, leaving her stomach exposed. I could hardly take my eyes off the fluid like motion her