A/N: If this were a movie trailer instead of an author note, a voiceover would announce, "From the minds that brought you A Day at Santa Monica Pier comes another tale of life, love, and latex in Los Angeles." This story is the sequel to ADASMP, which also appeared as Chapter 17 "Believe it, Woodman" of the Golden FanFic Award-winning story Repercussions: Part 2.

Heart-felt thanks go to Waldojeffers and Woundedhearts for reading early drafts.

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters from the Suite Life. Or Zombie Mom. On the other hand, I do own my OCs – Connor, Farshad, Louise, and others whom you will soon meet. I also own the plot, which does not portray any events, or sequence of events, that appeared in any episode of the Suite Life series.


Chapter 1: "Do You Like Latex?"


Who cares about tomorrow
Let the wind fill your sails
A runaway train ridin' on the rails
We got the bases loaded
Home run – power play
Tonight's the night we're goin' all the way

Bryan Adams, "There Will Never Be Another Tonight"

[-]

Tonight was going to be the best night of Connor Pickett-Martin's life.

The thought swirled about his head as he and the girl whose name he didn't know crashed through the door of her dorm room. From the way her tongue probed deeply into his mouth, as though she were trying to dislodge his back molars, he had a feeling he would get a lot more than he'd dared to hope for when he arrived at the party.

The party was on the top floor of his residence hall at UCLA, and Connor was glad he, Farshad, and Jackie had decided to check it out, even though they were still recovering from another Frosh Week bash the night before, at a frat house on the fringes of Beverly Hills. A crush of bodies filled the communal lounge, bouncing and swaying to a heavy techno-neo-Rasta beat. Cans of Coke spiked with rum were quickly pressed into their hands from other hands that extended octopus-like from the undulating bodies.

"Cheers, guys!" Connor had to shout to make himself heard above the music. Farshad Nazarov clinked his can against Connor's, then they both turned to Jacqueline Rovny, their new friend, a freshman who also lived on their floor.

"Cheers," she mouthed back.

Connor gulped down the Coke in three big swallows, wincing only slightly at the rum. He wasn't a big drinker, but this was Frosh Week. And what was Frosh Week designed for, if not drinking and partying?

The wall of people closed in on them as Connor knocked hips with Jackie and waved his hands above his head, reveling in the giddy freedom that characterizes Frosh Week all over North America. To his light-headed relief, he realized he didn't miss Misti McCrae, his long-term high school girlfriend, at all. Had barely even thought about her, in fact, since moving into residence on Sunday. Misti was now at a liberal arts college in Virginia, following a mutual, not-overly-heart-breaking agreement that long distance relationships "just didn't work," and Connor was embarking on four years of sand, surf, and studying in sunny Los Angeles. Life was good.

Before long, Connor became aware that a curvy dark-haired girl had joined their trio. Her hair spilled over her shoulders as she gyrated next to him in white terry-cloth short-shorts and a fuchsia UCLA tanktop that stretched enticingly over her ample chest. A lanyard hung around her neck, a key bouncing in the valley between her breasts.

Farshad caught his eye over the top of her head. Connor recognized the look of encouragement on his best friend's face. Dude, go for it. Farshad considered himself a ladies' man and had dated several girls throughout high school, though his relationships didn't last long, and never ended well. Connor attributed Farshad's success at least in part to the slight Persian accent that lingered on 10 years after he'd immigrated to the United States from Tajikistan. As Connor's dad said, "Chicks dig accents."

"Hey," said Connor to the girl, with what he hoped was a charming smile. Charm, his dad stressed, was also very important when talking to girls.

"Hey." Her lips moved soundlessly.

"Wanna dance?" he asked, raking a hand through his sandy blond hair. The alcohol and overpowering music dissipated any nervousness he might normally have felt.

She responded by spinning around and shimmying closer to him, hands up in the air.

He took that as a yes. Should he put his hands on her waist? Might as well. Gingerly he placed them there, fingertips on her hipbones, synchronizing his movements with hers. She seemed to mold to him and, encouraged by the tiny strip of black thong that nestled between her butt cheeks, his hands tightened. Farshad and Jackie had blended into the crowd. He was officially dancing with a hot girl on his third night of Frosh Week. Life was very good.

As the beat intensified, along with the heat in the room, mixed with sweat and assorted perfumes and body sprays, so did the girl's moves. Misti had never danced like this, preferring instead to wrap her arms around his neck during slow songs and sway demurely.

But this girl, she was practically grinding her butt into him now, her cheeks peeking out below her shorts, and Connor felt himself reacting. Would she mind? Should he be embarrassed? He couldn't help it, though. She was incredibly sexy.

Suddenly he was face to heart-shaped face with her chestnut eyes, perfectly tweezed eyebrows, and luscious lips, coated with bright red lip gloss. Cupping her hand around his ear, her rum-scented breath hot on his cheek, she said, "Let's get out of here."

Connor nodded instinctively, and within an instant she was towing him through the throng. Among the blur of faces, he was sure he'd seen Farshad flashing him an emphatic thumbs-up.

One corridor and one unlocked door later, they were tumbling into darkness, mouths plastered together.

Tonight is going to be the best night of my life.

The girl broke away from Connor to flip on a desk lamp, illuminating a shoebox-sized dorm room with two narrow beds, one made-up, one with sheets and blankets askew. Evidently the girl's roommate hadn't moved in yet.

She pushed him up against the wall. Her hands were under his navy blue UCLA t-shirt, in his hair, her knee wedged between his.

More parental guidance asserted itself through the haze of hormones and lust overtaking Connor's judgment. From his mom, this time: Be a gentleman. Before any further swapping of bodily fluids took place, they should know each other's names and a bit about one another.

He removed his right hand from the crook of her neck and held it out. "Hi, I'm Connor Pickett-Martin, from Dallas, Texas," he said politely, taking care to draw out his vowels. Chicks dig accents. "Born and raised." While Dallas had been home for nine years, his actual place of birth was Kettlepod, Kansas, a lame blip of a town. But he didn't need to tell her that. One of the main reasons he'd come to L.A. was to bury the last shreds of his redneck past.

The girl ignored this introduction and proceeded to yank his t-shirt over his head.

"What's your name?" he asked through the t-shirt. As she started to unbuckle his jeans, he added, "Where are you from?"

She stopped to stare at him. Uh oh... Had he said something stupid?

Then she blew out a breath that sounded slightly exasperated. "My name is Louise Linett," she replied with discernible impatience. "I'm a sophomore, from Seattle. Majoring in art history. I'm allergic to cats. I like finger-painting, long walks on the beach, and corrupting cute, innocent freshmen like you."

She thinks I'm cute! Sweet!

Louise snapped the waistband of his blue plaid boxers. "Now drop 'em," she commanded.

Woah, she's, uh, forward. Connor finished undoing his jeans and let them fall to the floor. Gulping back his trepidation, he pulled down his boxers. His erection sprung up. His heart thumped.

Does she like what she sees? he wondered nervously.

Another yes, he presumed when she kneeled, licked her lips, and enveloped him in her mouth. Shudders of pleasure rocked him as she ran her tongue tantalizingly along the underside of his shaft, and he had to lean against the wall to steady himself.

"Oh, wow," he moaned breathlessly. Louise's enthusiastic ministrations were nothing like Misti's shy, awkward efforts. She was making him tingle in places he didn't even know he could tingle.

But what to do with his hands? Putting them on her head might be perceived as rude. In as gentlemanly a manner as he could, he rested them on her tanned shoulders, toying with her hair and brushing it out of her eyes as needed. His pulse was racing like a fat man's on a treadmill.

Abruptly Louise stopped and rose to her feet. Her lip gloss had been completely rubbed off.

Don't stop, he wanted to beg, though perhaps it was a good thing she had. He was getting a little too close to the point of no return. With Misti, he'd always had to warn her when he was close so she could look away.

Louise's next move was to haul him to the unmade bed and push him down onto it. He kicked off his flip-flops and she did the same with hers, then bent to pull a box from under the bed. Sounds of rummaging ensued.

Connor pictured whips, chains, and handcuffs, breathing out a sigh tinged with relief when she asked, as casually as though inquiring whether he liked pepperoni as a pizza topping, "Do you like latex?"

He nodded vigorously. "Absolutely. I love it." He was an 18-year-old guy possibly about to get laid for the first time. He loved everything. Well, except BDSM. His dad's friend Bob had lost a nipple thanks to a girl with those interests, and Connor wished to keep both of his in tact.

Louise popped a DVD into the player on the desk. "This one's my favourite," she said, pressing buttons on the remote. "It only had a limited release, but it's sooo hot." She peeled off her tanktop and shorts to reveal a simple black bra and the previously glimpsed black thong. "Now say hello to Mr. and Mrs. Latex," she instructed and lay beside him, her right knee on his stomach.

Connor put his tongue back in his mouth and looked to the TV. The screen flickered with images of a man and woman romping on a large bed. Their black latex clothes intrigued him. The woman was strapped into a waist-cinching corset that pressed under her breasts. The rest of her outfit consisted of thigh-high boots attached to her corset with garters, a thong smaller than Louise's, and fingertip-less gloves that ended at her elbows. The man had on a short-sleeved vest, biker-style shorts with an unsnapped front panel, and similar gloves. Both of them wore head masks with holes for their eyes, noses, and mouths. The woman's mask had two extra holes through which poked her brown knotted pigtails.

As intriguing as their outfits were, though, digital breasts couldn't beat real ones, and right now Louise's were mere inches from Connor's face, straining against her bra cups. Tentatively he unhooked the front clasp, because he knew how to do that, and kissed her right nipple. It puckered under his tongue. He felt Louise exhale.

Even more tentatively he allowed his hand to creep up her thigh to the edge of her thong, the only scrap of fabric separating them from complete nakedness. Louise grabbed hold of his hand and ground it against her crotch in a way Misti had occasionally permitted him to do, but never for very long. "It's OK, you are allowed to touch me," she said. The impatience was back. "At this point, I'm pretty much a sure thing."

So Connor slid his right hand underneath the flimsy material into her warm, damp folds and she resumed the blowjob. He moved his left hand down to support her head. Her legs spread a little wider as his fingers grew bolder in their explorations.

A cacophony on-screen disrupted his concentration.

"I swear she's not faking it here," Louise commented, her mouth full. "She's really enjoying herself. It's such a turn-on."

Connor glanced at the screen. The latex woman certainly seemed to be enjoying her partner's oral attentions. Her head was thrown back, her mouth open in an O-shape, one hand cupping her breast and other holding the man's head, and she was making a lot of noise. Yet, while Connor couldn't disagree with Louise that the video was hot, something about it seemed off. The aspect ratio, perhaps. But whatever, he didn't really care what was happening on-screen. He was much more interested in trying to make sure he and Louise enjoyed themselves.

His hand ventured into her thong again, his thumb nudging the hard nub of her clit, lightly at first, then more intently. Louise groaned, her lips sending reverberations down his shaft. Her hips were beginning to buck. Connor's were, too. How would it feel to be inside her? He wanted to know, with a curiosity that verged on desperation. What would it be like to slide up into that slick silky wetness, to feel her gripping him...

Louise stiffened. She whimpered and he felt her entire body quiver.

Half-startled, half-delighted, Connor asked, "Did you just...?" He could never tell with Misti. She would lie there quietly, sigh once, then say "I'm done" and push his hand aside.

"Mmmm hmmm." A saucy smile flitted across Louise's face. She winked. "But don't worry, I'm not finished yet." And down went her mouth again.

"Ohhhh," Connor gasped as his stomach clenched involuntarily. He was so hard his erection was throbbing painfully.

Louise sat up. "You're about to pop aren't you?" she asked.

"No..." he denied.

She treated him to another lick, causing his stomach to tense precariously.

"Maybe," he admitted.

Oh, who am I kidding?

"OK, yeah," he concluded.

Louise's mouth curved into a wide, seductive grin. "Well, then let's slow things down a bit," she said. "We haven't got to the main event." She stretched out between his legs and stroked him languidly with her tongue.

Connor settled against the pillow, trying to catch his breath. They were going to have sex. She had confirmed it. He was going to lose his virginity tonight. The thought of it nearly made him explode from anticipation.

Seeking a distraction, he returned his eyes to the TV. What were Mr. and Mrs. Latex up to now?

They were locked in a doggy-style position doing something Misti wouldn't ever have considered. And likely never would.

I didn't know girls enjoyed that, Connor observed. Especially not that much.

The camera panned around the panting pair, stopping at an interesting angle. It was then that Connor noticed the birthmark on the woman's left hip. A strawberry-shaped birthmark, much like the one on his mom's left hip, visible only when she wore a bathing suit.

He shook off the queasy coincidence. Plenty of people had birthmarks. He, for example, had a small brown blob on his inner left thigh, currently obscured by Louise's head. Proof that birthmarks were very common, he told himself.

As he watched, the woman reached behind to hold onto the man's left forearm. For better leverage, Connor guessed. The force of her grip tugged down the man's glove, and Connor's jaw dropped at the lines of blue that appeared above the latex. His dad, a Special Forces veteran, had a bunch of names tattooed on his left forearm. In blue ink. In that exact spot.

No, it's just a very creepy and disturbing coincidence. It has to be.

The camera swooped in, close enough to show a pattern of scars emerging from the edges of the man's vest. Connor felt faint. His dad also had scars on his back and chest, from doing "soldier stuff," as he put it. But that can't be him. Connor wanted to shut his eyes to block out the possibility, pull a blanket over his head, but before he could budge, the camera zoomed onto what he had somehow missed until this moment. The Marines insignia and motto tattooed below the man's right shoulder. Same as below his dad's right shoulder.

Oh no...

Oblivious to Connor's distress, the man let go of the woman's right pigtail and began to slap her butt. With each slap, the birthmark jiggled and Connor's heart skipped a horrified beat.

They were his parents. Mr. and Mrs. Latex were his parents.

Noooooo... His mouth froze, the word mutating into a death cry in his ears, as if his inner child was being swallowed up by the La Brea Tar Pits, where he'd gone with his parents and little sisters on Sunday. No, Mommy, this isn't happening, you would never do this, no...

The two sides of the fight or flight impulse battled each other briefly. Flight won out. Connor's neural pathways began to shut down. His optic nerves refused to relay more information to his visual processing centre.

"Hey! What's going on?"

An angry voice jarred him back to the dorm room. Back to the irate face frowning at him from between his legs, that of hot sexy Louise who wanted to relieve him of his virginity. Back to what was supposed to be the best night of his life.

Connor looked down. His erection was gone. He was limp. As limp as a flower in the desert during the dry spell of the century.

"Well?" Louise demanded. She sat upright, arms crossed over her breasts, eyes slanted into a glare.

"Umm, I..." His insides were roiling, the taste of rum and Coke burning in his throat. He put his hand over his mouth, afraid he was going to throw up.

The glare deepened. "Let me guess, you just had your college gay epiphany, didn't you?" More to herself, she grumbled, "Not again."

"No," Connor said feebly. He didn't want to hurt her feelings. "I'm not gay... it's just that... I... I... uh..."

"What? You what?"

"I... um..."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," she snapped dismissively.

But what could he say? The truth was too horrible to explain to her, let alone admit out loud. Ever. All he really wanted to do was curl up into a ball and die. Gouging out his retinas with a sharp instrument was a close second.

Louise took matters into her own hands. She jumped up and gathered his clothes and flip-flops from the floor.

"Here." She thrust them at him, her face a thundercloud. "Just get out. Go have yourself a gay old time."

Meek with shame and horror, Connor took them from her and allowed her to propel him to the door. "I'm sorry," he mumbled just before it slammed in his face.

Clothes clutched to his nether regions, he slid into a heap on the floor. At least now he had the chance to curl up into a ball. Locating a sharp instrument would require more effort than he could muster. As for whether he would actually die, that remained to be seen.

The corridor was empty, the communal lounge at the far end deserted. Campus security must have cleared everyone out. Cans and pizza boxes strewn about were the only remnants of the party that had been in full, sweaty swing just an hour ago. For all the evidence left, the entire party could have been an illusion, couldn't it? Just a temporary nightmare. Like the ones he had after watching the B-rated cult classic Zombie Mom. Or someone could have slipped an extra something into his drink — meaning the whole wretched encounter had been nothing but a crazy, drug-induced trip through some twisted Freudian pocket of his mind.

An indeterminate amount of time had passed when Connor heard a familiar voice. "Dude?"

He looked up to see Farshad standing in front of him, dark eyes glittering inquisitively in the dim light of the corridor. His brow furrowed in consternation. "What the he–?"

That was as far as he got. A hand shot out, like a movie monster seizing its next victim, followed by a bark from Louise: "Get in here, cutie." The door slammed again, and a moment later Connor heard her exclaim, "Damnit, I missed the Halley's Comet. It's the best part of the whole video."

Connor shuddered. Whatever a Halley's Comet was, he was sure he didn't want to know. And he was very sure he didn't want to hear anything else coming from Louise's room. He shuffled to his feet, holding tightly to his clothes, and stumbled off in search of his own dorm room.

[***]

Tonight is the worst night of my life.

Worse than the time he fell off Daddy Moose's barn roof when he was six and had a concussion for two days. Worse than the day he lost his little sisters, Shi and Mel, at the Texas State Fair. Even worse than the time he and Farshad accidentally crashed Uncle Cody's Lexus, which had led to the equally unpleasant experience of being grounded for three months and missing eighth grade prom.

The thought was still circling his brain like a starved vulture when the door clicked open and Farshad tiptoed into the dark room, fumbling his way to his bed. Connor rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. He hoped it was just his imagination that Farshad seemed to be limping. Could this night get any worse? For a moment he felt as though an evil unseen narrator were deliberately torturing him, rubbing its hands together in malicious glee while he squirmed and suffered.

Farshad climbed into bed without saying a word.

Connor sighed miserably. It's going to be a long quarter. Maybe I should have gone to Harvard instead.


A/N: Will Connor ever get over this experience? Will he ever be able to look his parents in the eye again? And where are Woody and Addison of Woodman Studios fame? Could they have had something to do with this video? Stay tuned! : ) And please read and review, because your feedback and ideas are always a valuable source of inspiration, and always make me smile. Xoxoxo – Ellie

P.S. For those of you who've read R2, Connor's fall from the barn roof was mentioned in Chapter 6 "Accidents Happen." Bob's nipple misfortune was mentioned in Chapter 13 "Parklife." Zack met Farshad Nazarov at the end of Chapter 22 "I Have Something to Tell You."