EXTRACT FOR
Leslie Raft & The Quest for the Lost Medal of Lulu
(Cigar Ashslave)

"Ah, there you are, my dear father." Leslie Raft strode into the grand gallery, the heels of her stilettos clicking rhythmically against the marble floor. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a gilded mirror and smiled. She knew she looked good,probably even better than the priceless artwork surrounding her. She took in the warm but familiar scent of aged wood and dust mixed with a hint of expensive perfume. This was her father's office-an obsessive collector of rare artifacts and antiquities, he had filled the room with ancient treasures from all corners of the world.



Leslie's eyes landed on the desk, uncluttered for once. A single sheet of paper lay there, brimming with her father's bold handwriting. The words "Lost Medal of Lulu" stood out amongst the jumble of sentences, instantly igniting a spark within her. Leslie glanced around the room, her heart sinking as she noticed the empty chair behind the massive desk. Where was he? She shook her head, a sudden sense of urgency gripping her.



"Dad? Are you here?" she called out, already mentally running through the various hiding spots he'd frequented when she was a younger. She grinned, musing that her father seemed to have kept his immature nature despite his sixty-odd years, though it had been ages since she'd called him 'Dad' in such a playful tone. Instead, they often engaged in scholarly debates about the numerous artifacts in the room, arguing over their provenance and historical significance.



A mysterious hum from the corner caught her attention. The Hyromind, her father's latest prized possession-a strange device that emitted a pulsating glow without any visible source of power. Its presence was still enigmatic, but Leslie knew its potential for good and bad. After all, she too had experienced its strange, submissive effects, a secret she would only confess to her father, and no one else. For as long as she could remember, he'd been the esteemed John Raft, the great archaeologist who could uncover long-lost riches and secrets with just a wave of his hand.



Reaching the desk, Leslie's eyes scanned the note for any signs of her father's current whereabouts. To her dismay, there were none. The cluttered room suddenly felt overwhelming, her father's absence, suffocating. A crease of worry etched its way onto her forehead, slowly deepening as a sense of loss enveloped her. The room that once brimmed with her father's essence now echoed with silence and uncertainty.



A faint scent lingered, an ever-so-subtle wisp of tobacco, undoubtedly from her father's favorite pipe. It brought back memories of him lost in thought, nestled amongst the towering stacks of ancient tomes around the office.



The faint sound of an elevator snapping her back to reality, revealing a tall figure in a tweed coat, looming just beyond the threshold of the office. "The Lost Medal of Lulu, you say?" A voice drifted in from the entrance of the gallery, its smugly amused undertone twisting Leslie's stomach into knots. She turned slowly, her gaze meeting that of Thomas King, her father's long-time academic rival. With a wave of irritation, she noted his customary entrance with a Cuban cigar perched between his fingers, the cloud of smoke from seemingly innocuous insignia of power and manipulation.



Thomas King stepped out; his distinct air of superiority preceding him. He extended a hand, clasping Leslie's in a firm grip. Despite herself, she shivered slightly at his icy touch, knowing that such a refined exterior held a sinister undercurrent. "Lost, are we?" Thomas' voice dripped with sarcasm as his gaze swept around the room before settling on her. He held the Cuban cigar between his fingers, gently toying with it.



Even in a room bathed in the glow of the Hyromind device, Thomas King's presence was unmistakable. Leslie cursed herself for not noticing him earlier. Just as she drew a sharp breath to compose herself before her father's rival, his voice cut through the heaviness that clung to the room. "Ah, Leslie my dear, you've grown even more beautiful since our last encounter."



The faint scent of tobacco filled the space between them, almost masking the man's malicious intent. Irritation pierced through Leslie like a splinter. She felt her grip tighten around the scroll, desperate to resist the urge to claw the device from her father's study. "Oh, you haven't forgotten about me, have you, Leslie?" His lips spread into a thin grin, and he took a puff of his cigar, eyes never leaving her face.



"In fact, you've grown into your father's spitting image. The same adventurous spirit, the same bold and determined personality, and-" his eyes trailed down her latex-covered body, " -the same tantalizing figure. It's quite arousing, isn't it?" No, it wasn't. Leslie felt a wave of disgust and anger surge within her as his lewd gaze scanned her body. Leslie squared her shoulders and let out a slow exhale, her fingers unconsciously tracing the outline of the Hyromind device tucked under her tight latex top.



She needed Thomas King to know she wasn't some damsel in distress waiting to be claimed by her father's legacy. No, she was a force to be reckoned with in her own right, every bit as skilled and determined as John Raft. Her free will was hers to keep. She was Leslie Raft, a buxom adventuress in her mid-twenties, and she'd learn to harness the Hyromind influence to her advantage.



"Thomas, your flattery does not impress me," she said, keeping a cool composure. "As we both know, my father's disappearance is no laughing matter." He held up his hands and shrugged, the Cuban cigar never leaving his lips. "Of course, my dear, I was merely trying to lighten the mood."