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This material is Copyright, 2001, 2003, Uther Pendragon. All
rights reserved. I specifically grant the right of downloading
and keeping ONE electronic copy for your personal reading so long
as this notice is included. Reposting requires previous
permission.
All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as
public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination
and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly
coincidental.
# # # #
HEART BALL
by Uther Pendragon
nogardneprethu@gmail.com
Part 2:
Continued from Part 1
Friday, there was a home game. He and Shannon went to the
game together and parked afterwards. They were dressed for the
weather, and his hand was icy; so he took some time to burrow
under Shannon's parka and her sweater. Finally, caressing her
through her warm sweat shirt, he reached the soft mound formed by
her breast. And it was remarkably soft. Before he touched the
peak that the shirt made over her nipple, he knew that she hadn't
worn a bra.
"Oh, Shannon!" he said. She was so soft, and he knew how
those glories looked. Hell! He knew how they tasted. He kissed
her more deeply while holding her. Probably his hand was still
too cold to go under the shirt. "I love you. I want to be with
you always."
"I want that too," she said. Then she kissed him back. A
minute later, she pushed his face away. "Steve," she said, "I do
want to be with you always. I want to be with you next
year."
It took him a minute to hear what she was saying. Somehow,
all of his attention was on his left hand and none on his
ears.
"We should go to the same college." She said it aloud, and
wondered how much she was pushing him.
"Well, I've applied to U of I already. I need some backups,
and the counselor told me that I looked good enough in science to
add a better school. You know what they say, one for a dream and
one for a parachute."
"You can do better than Champaign-Urbana." That was her idea
of a parachute. Besides being with her for four more years, he
should realize his potential.
"Don't make it sound like a pile of garbage; people from out-
of-state pay big money to go there. It's not Cal Tech or MIT,
but it is a good school for chemical engineering. It is a lot
cheaper than any comparable school when you're paying in-state
tuition."
"There's always financial aid. Mrs. Swenson said that you
could do better."
"She told me that I had a decent chance. Anyway, what is your
dream school? U of C?"
"Fat chance! I don't want to live in the big city. I've
applied to Albion College. It's small, it's liberal arts, and my
mother is an alum."
"And *you* were wondering if we would be together."
"You really are more interested in chemistry. I'm sure that
you could get a great education in chemistry at Albion."
"I'll look into it."
By the time that conversation was done, it was almost time to
drive her home. They kissed deeply, his hand still outside her
shirt. Then he started the car.
- = -
He thought that there were better things to do on dates than
talk.
However there was never enough time to talk. They shared one
class that year, English, and a lunch period. But Shannon had to
cross the entire building after English class. Shannon belonged,
had belonged since grade school, to a group of girls that got
together for some lunches. While they mostly didn't meet as a
group anymore except to celebrate birthdays, one or another of
them might join Shannon and him at a table. She would sometimes
wave them off, but she got angry if he did. Even if she did, the
table would fill up one way or another.
Their talks on the phone were only private if both sets of
parents were elsewhere.
He lived more than four miles from the high school, an
uncomfortable walk but no great bike ride. He could walk Shannon
home, wheeling his bike. In bad weather, he took the bus which
left right at the end of home room. He didn't even get a chance
to wave at Shannon those days. The bus also followed a
circuitous route, taking almost as long as the direct bike ride
did.
- = -
Shannon was second back-up on Mrs. Green's call list when the
regular babysitter couldn't make it. She would gladly have been
third. One time in mid-October, Mrs. Green called back after
having received a refusal.
"I told you that I have a date," Shannon said. "My boyfriend
works, and I sit for other people. We don't have that many
evenings when we are both free. Anyway, I promised. I can't
possibly come."
"Look, half the nursing staff is working with the flu. I
can't call in and say that I can't get a sitter." There must
have been a Mr. Green at some time, but not within Shannon's
acquaintance with the family. "Were you going somewhere special
with your boyfriend?"
"It's special *because* it's with my boyfriend," Shannon
said, biting back the question of what business it was of Mrs.
Green's.
"I trust you; you know that. Wouldn't leave you with Ralph
and George otherwise, right?" Shannon wasn't sure that she had
all that much choice; for the night in question, she didn't
appear to have any. "You could have him over while you sit. If
he picks up pizza for the four of you, I'll reimburse him that
night." Steve wasn't happy; hell, Shannon wasn't happy, but she
didn't want to deepen the hospital's staffing crisis. She
reluctantly agreed.
Picturing all the possibilities of the two of them alone,
Steve rang up a box of condoms and hid it away -- slightly
lighter -- at home. The reality was different. His condom
stayed in the secret compartment of his wallet; the belt to
Shannon's jeans stayed buckled. He and she even -- once the
little terrorists were actually asleep -- got some studying done.
He had to leave before Mrs. Green arrived, too; he got the money
for the pizza from Shannon the next day.
A precedent had been set, however. From that time on, Shannon
invited him over whenever she sat for the Green kids. Steve
would come soon after their bedtime, or later if he worked that
night. Once the kids were settled down, they would have time for
some serious making out. Shannon didn't go around without her
top, afraid of the kids' waking up or someone's coming to the
door; but he pushed it up in the soft lamplight. She removed her
bra, and he could feast his eyes (and hands and mouth) on her
beauty.
The pleasure that Steve afforded her almost made up for the
struggles that Shannon had with those kids. And, she was vaguely
aware, the tension from those kids made her a little more eager
for Steve's kisses -- and his hands.
- = -
Steve wanted Shannon. He was reconciled to the knowledge that
he couldn't have her completely any time soon, but he was pulling
for the long run. Together in college, with parents far away, he
thought that he would have a chance. For that matter, he wanted
the very long run, as well. If he had to wait until marriage,
there were still the kisses -- and the magazines.
Shannon's college plans, however, seemed to be driving them
apart. He stopped her in the hall one morning. "Can you get a
pass to see the counselor seventh period?" They each had study
hall that period, unfortunately in different rooms.
"I'll try." Lots of kids used that as a way to cut, get the
pass but don't show up. Or show up very late. She hated to lie,
however, and Steve should know that.
"Good, I want both of us to see the same thing at the same
time. I'll see you there."
So, she didn't have to lie.
Mrs. Swenson looked surprised to see the two of them together.
"Actually," she said, "I'm more of a career counselor
than...."
"Well," said Steve, "you're the person we are supposed to see
about college applications. And, anyway, it is more that we want
to see your *Blue Book.*"
She gave them the book and took another student into her inner
office.
"Read it and weep," Steve said. "Albion's *weaker* in
academics than the U of I. It will cost ten thou more to go
there. And I can't get a degree in Chem-E. There's no reason
for me to go there, except you; and the only reason for you to go
there is your mother's nostalgia."
"You could get a chemistry degree at Albion. It's a fine
school." It *had* been her mother's dream; it had become
hers, though.
They were still wrangling when Mrs. Swenson called them in.
When the problem was laid out for her, she sighed. She almost
wished that the problem that they brought her had been the one
that she had suspected first.
"Look at this objectively," she said. "You guys like each
other. You want to go to the same school. I can understand that.
But going to different schools is not the end of the world." It
would probably be the end of their romance, but so would going to
the same school in nine cases out of ten. Suggesting that they
might grow out of their relationship was not, as she was well
aware, the way to reach these kids.
"He could get a chemistry degree *with* the liberal-arts
experience," Shannon said. "It's a better school. And they give
financial aid."
"Including both loans and grants," Steve pointed out.
"Everybody does that. My father is still paying off *his*
student loan. And look at the ACT scores. It's not a better
school."
"Well," Mrs. Swenson said, "it's a less *selective*
school, but not really significantly so. That doesn't mean that
they teach you less. You're comparing apples and oranges. The
university has, what? twenty times as many students?"
"About that," said Steve.
"And it has graduate programs. That means that there will be
many more faculty there, and some of them will be significant
researchers. You won't meet them in your first two years, maybe
never. You will study under their grad students; and, however
advanced the subject you want to study, there will be someone
there who can teach you.
"On the other hand," she continued, "if you want a piece of
paper without really learning anything, that can happen at a big
university more easily than anywhere else. Nobody watches to see
if you go to class. Nobody watches to see if your interests are
being met. Nobody cares.
"A good, small, liberal-arts college provides anybody who
wants one an introduction to the thinking which has passed the
test of time or has attracted academic approval. Almost always
the original thinking is going on elsewhere. It is a great
experience. I enjoyed it. And the professors are hired to
teach, more likely have an ability to teach. You don't get
graduate students who are finding out whether they can teach or
not.
"But, if you want something particular, want to be a chemist,
did you say?"
"That or a chemical engineer," Steve said. "I never thought
that I was Nobel-prize material. And I don't want, with all due
respect, to teach. I want to put things together."
"Then you should go where they have that as one of their aims.
Now, with a degree in chemistry you can do all sorts of things.
You can become a doctor, or even a lawyer."
"I don't want that."
"But many people do. And many people go to college wanting
some sort of an education and major in chemistry because they are
sort of good at it or because the teacher is great. Those do
just fine in liberal-arts schools. If you want to do technology,
it's probably smarter to attend a school where they train people
for that technology.
"That doesn't mean," she told Shannon, "that you should follow
him there."
But Shannon wanted to be with him.
- = -
"What is my balance with you anyway, Mom?" Shannon asked.
"I don't know precisely. I haven't added up the books lately,
but you have plenty even after you deduct the taxes you'll owe.
Why do you ask?" Her daughter was good about earning money,
Allison Bryant couldn't deny that. She was also a wild
spendthrift. If she told her that the balance was several
thousand dollars, it would be gone next month.
"Steve's birthday is next week. If I have lots in the bank, I
want to buy him something really nice."
"You have lots in the bank, but does he?"
"Well, he's saving up for college, but what does that matter?"
Her mother was always bringing up these irrelevancies.
"Shannon, I'm glad that you're feeling generous. I'm sure
that you would feel really good about getting Steven something
expensive. And, if he gave you something less expensive on your
birthday, you wouldn't let that bother you.
"But would it bother Steven?"
Dammit! It would. She could see that now. "I just want it
to something he really enjoys. And he dresses sort of.... Well,
he's not quite a nerd."
"And now, you have to think of something he would *like*,
instead of something which isn't in his style but is really
expensive. Now you have to find something which you know he will
like because you know him better than anyone else does."
"Gee thanks, Mom." But she was right, after all.
- = -
Mr. Jensen picked Shannon up for a babysitting job on
Wednesday night. When she got to the house, Amy burst into
tears. Shannon wanted to say, "Look, kiss her good-bye and
leave. The tears will last all of five minutes after you're out
the door." She didn't say anything, though. Mrs. Jensen
dithered, Amy wept herself damn close to an attack, and Mr.
Jensen finally drove Shannon home.
"I'm sorry about this," he said.
"She really cried more than she would have if you had just
left. She doesn't *enjoy* having the two of you gone, but
the parting is what's traumatic. It's like her playing with
Peggy's bottle. You don't say, 'Look Amy, here's a bottle you
can't have.' You put it where she can't see it and say, 'All
gone.' She looks for something else to want."
"Theresa needs to get out of that house. The constant worry
is going to drive her up the wall. Look, don't give up on us.
We'd have been gone, what? Maybe five hours. I'll pay you half
what you would have received." He paid her a ten and a five
before she left the car. She put it in her pocketbook. If her
mom said that there was loads of money in the bank, there really
was no reason to build that credit any higher. Checks, now,
would have to go to Mom.
- = -
Shannon asked her other customers for privileges similar to
those Mrs. Green gave her. The responses were mixed. Some
families for whom she sat refused to consider allowing a strange
boy into their house; one never called her again after she asked.
Others checked up on Steve, or asked to meet him. Some, however,
figured that -- simply by asking -- Shannon had demonstrated
enough responsibility to be trusted. Gradually, Shannon moved
the less permissive ones (except the Jensens) to the bottom of
her customer list; she also started a pattern of cleaning up the
mess that the kids left, as well as any that Steve and she
caused, for those parents who trusted her that much.
One Monday, Steve was pushing the deadline on a major paper
due that Wednesday. Shannon told him in the hall that he could
visit her at the Larkins' where she was babysitting that Tuesday
night. He was foolish enough to mention the paper.
"Well, if you come over," she said, "bring the theme. I want
to see that you have finished it." He rushed to get something
down on paper; it showed. She took the last two pages and tore
them in two. "You are going to do that right. I have some
studying that I can do as well."
Mr. Larkin, who brought his wife home early with a migraine
that night, would never understand why the two teenagers he
surprised studying across from each other at his dining-room
table seemed so flustered.
By mid-November, they had established a pattern. Shannon
would make sure that Steve met any kids where he was allowed to
visit, not wanting any of her charges to wake up to find an
absolute stranger in the house. Steve had limited chances,
however, to see Shannon on nights when he wasn't working.
More usually, he would stop off at Shannon's job after the
drug store closed. They would work together to clean up the mess
and then spread out their books to look like they were studying;
that ploy had worked with the Larkins, after all. Steve would
push up Shannon's top and unhook her bra; after the near miss at
the Larkins', Shannon only took her bra off at Mrs. Green's.
Then his hands would feel that marvelous smoothness and heft
while they shared a long deep kiss. When his lips replaced his
hands, he caressed the length of her thighs and squeezed her
butt.
Compulsively drawn to those curves, he would stroke them as
long as she let him. He usually would arouse himself to the
point where he had to adjourn to the bathroom for a little
relief. Then he would leave, usually before the parents got
home.
Shannon, too, was aroused by the kisses and stroking. She
never distinguished the physical sensations from the knowledge
that Steve desired her and thought her a beauty. While Steve's
tongue played with hers and his fingers stroked over her breasts,
her nipples would tingle. Then he would lick them until the
feeling turned into an ache and the tingle moved downwards to her
stomach and then to the junction of her legs.
Shannon always remembered, however that she had
responsibilities, for herself and for the parents who left her in
charge of their houses and their children. She had a good idea
what Steve was doing in the bathroom before he left. She didn't
understand how he could leave the warmth and love of her arms for
the cold, smelly, borrowed room full of enamel and pipes.
Shannon put herself back together and waited patiently to be
relieved of her responsibilities and driven home.
Only in the warmth, comfort, and safety of her own bed in her
own room would she allow herself to really remember Steve's hands
and lips and words. Then she would hug a pillow that she called
Steve and take her own hands where she wouldn't permit Steve's.
She pretended that they were his hands, however, and dreamed of
the day when they would be.
On their wedding night, they would kiss until she was as dizzy
as she was on the best of these dates. And he would kiss her
skin every time he removed a piece of her clothing, then kiss her
mouth again. Then, while she hid in the bed, Steve would strip
as well. Lying beside her, hugging and kissing her, he would
stroke her until she was aroused as she was now. And then, and
then....
And then she climaxed from her own hand. It was exciting, but
it was merely a promise of what was to be. And Steve wasn't
there to hold her as she drifted off to sleep.
- = -
Meanwhile, they reached a compromise on schools; more
accurately, they put their problems off. Steve applied to
Albion, and to the Illinois Institute of Technology as a might-
get-in. Shannon applied to the U of I as well as to Albion.
Neither really applied to a "parachute" school, although Shannon
thought of the U of I that way.
They continued to go on dates. For most of these they wore
blue jeans. For the Thanksgiving Ball, however, Steve wore a
coat and tie and Shannon a fancy zip-up-the-back dress. The
heater hadn't been able to overcome the hours-old chill in the
parked car, and Shannon couldn't bring herself to permit the
near-nakedness that was the only way to give Steve access to her
breasts with that dress. She was wearing a slip, for heaven's
sake.
"Please, darling," she said when he started fumbling with the
zipper. "Anybody could drive by and see in. Let's just
kiss."
Steve thought ruefully that he would have enjoyed the evening
more if Shannon had taken a babysitting job. But it wasn't
really true. He had held her in his arms for every slow dance;
he'd shown her off in public as his girl. "Anyway," he thought,
"I only have about half an hour. I can spend it fighting her and
ruin the evening, or I can spend it kissing her." The choice
seemed obvious.
"Kissing you is never 'just a kiss.' A kiss from Shannon is
an event."
And, at that, they kissed. He tasted her lipstick, and then
her mouth opened wide -- letting their tongues meet, and he could
taste Shannon. She raised no objection to his hands roving over
her dress; but, while the shape was vaguely like Shannon's, the
softness that he loved was buried too deep. When he stroked her
leg, however, the story was entirely different. Through the
three layers of soft cloth, the curves of her thigh were much
softer than the usual sculpted shapes armored by jeans. The
softening made those curves even more magnetic. It was minutes
before he could tear his left hand away and hold it in front of
the heater vent. He kept his right hand, terribly restricted by
their location, resting on her left thigh.
Shannon also experienced these strokes differently. First,
she had entered the car still excited by the evening; then, the
embarrassment geared her up to fight Steve off; not needing to
fight led to gratitude mixed with the annoyance of all that
combative adrenaline going to waste. By the time that she melted
through those layers to really experience the kiss, she felt
Steve's caresses on her leg. Without the interference of the
jeans, it was every bit as arousing as the attention to her
breasts would have been. She had even felt her nipples tighten
into the beginning of their ache when Steve had removed the more
arousing hand.
Wanting more but afraid to say so, she pulled his face against
hers to deepen the kiss. For once, her tongue had pressed into
his mouth. He sucked it just when the warm hand touched her
knee. Only her panty hose was between them. She knew that she
should say no; but she'd already said that once this evening, and
the hand was out of sight, and her body was saying yes. She
compromised by closing her legs together. His strokes on the
outside of her leg were exciting in the sense of daring, but less
arousing than the earlier strokes on her thrice-covered inner
thigh. Soon it had been time to quit.
"Break!" she said. "My curfew is coming up."
"Damn!" he said. But he put the car in gear, anyway. At her
house, he opened the car door for her, walked her to the door,
and gave her a quick peck on her mouth. Not that this fooled her
parents when they saw her smeared lipstick.
"You're two minutes late," was all that her father said.
"We could have been on time," she answered. "Steve just
doesn't like to break the speed limit." And it ended there.
Up in her room, Shannon paused before donning her
nightgown. She looked once again at her naked figure in the
mirror. She thought back to the end of the summer. The meadow
had been a special place, and the summer mornings had been
special times. The last morning there had been most special of
all.
She had been lying in the meadow holding a
bouquet of wild flowers Steve had picked for her. He
had been kneeling at her head and kissing all over her
face. While he'd kissed her breasts, she had nipped
at the bronzed skin arching above her. Then he'd
kissed her bellybutton while she wiggled in response to
the tickle. She hadn't resisted when he pushed down on
her shorts.
She still didn't know why. Maybe it had been the
non-threatening position, maybe it had been the school
year looming over them. One tiny part of it had been
the posies in her hand that she didn't want to crush.
Then he'd pushed her panties down to the edge of her
mound. "Oh Shannon," he'd said.
She'd responded to the wonder in his voice by
raising her hips and pushing the shorts and panties
down to her thighs. She *really* couldn't tell
why she'd done that.
"That's where they get it," he'd said.
Suddenly frightened, she had pulled her panties and
shorts up. "Get what?"
"The heart, the Valentine heart. It doesn't look
much like the illustrations of a heart in the health
books; but it looks just like your hair. Look if you
don't believe me. No wonder it's the symbol of
love."
"I'll look," she had said. "But when I'm alone,
thank you."
"You have to think of it upside down, if you use a
mirror."
"I shouldn't have let you do that."
"Yes you should," he had said. "I love you."
"That doesn't follow." And soon they'd had to leave
the meadow, and the summer.
She had looked, though, that night and later.
Sometimes she could almost see what he meant,
sometimes she thought that he'd been making it
up.
Tonight it looked like a valentine's heart. Tonight it
looked like a symbol of their love. Tonight, she was sorry that
she had closed her legs in the car. She donned her nightgown
and climbed into bed. She shivered; the gown and the sheets
were even colder than the air.
She'd never caressed as far down her legs as Steve had
started, but she tried it now. The feeling, even from her own
fingers, was erotic. By the time that she reached the junction
of her thighs, she was ready, and she had barely touched her
breasts yet. She did so, and then took herself over.
- = -
"About last night," Shannon said during supper Sunday
night.
"Look," her mother responded. "We don't want to make a big
thing of a few minutes, but the curfew is your deadline. You're
supposed to be home *before* eleven. We wouldn't mind
having you invite Steven in for the time remaining until
eleven."
"But when I come home late from babysitting, you don't make a
big thing of it."
"That's different, dear," Wayne Bryant answered, atypically.
He left these things to his wife most of the time, feeling that
she could better judge the fine line between the rules that
needed to be enforced and those which would drive Shannon to
rebellion.
"It's different," Shannon said, "because those are adults
who've broken their commitment. If Mr. Larkin says that he'll be
home at eleven and staggers in a little after twelve, that's
okay. But if Steve took one drink before he drove me home, you
wouldn't let me ever date him again."
"It's different because you can nap when you're babysitting
late," he said.
"Oh? If I were sleeping beside Steve, it would be okay?"
"Shannon!" her mother said.
"I was only teasing. You know that I wouldn't."
Allison Bryant, who knew no such thing, was much too wise to
say so. "That's all right, Shannon. We know that you are a kid
who teases us. But eleven o'clock is really awfully late for a
kid to be out." Shannon had lost that one, but she planned to
bring it up again. Later that night she went through her
wardrobe choosing which skirts were a little too passe or too
worn for wearing to school.
Her parents looked at each other when she had gone up to her
room. They knew that she was a basically good kid, Steven too.
They'd been glad when this romance had started, partly because
Shannon felt so awful after Curt, partly because Steven was in
the same year and acted like a gentleman.
They continued the conversation in their room. "I don't know,
Wayne," her mother said as she sat at her dresser to remove her
makeup. "We do let her babysit for Mrs. Green on school nights.
And that doesn't get her home much before 1:00, sometimes later.
What about keeping 11:00 for dates on school nights, but letting
her stay out until midnight on weekends?"
"When you get up late, it's hard to change back. She needs to
get up at 6:30 tomorrow, she dragged herself out of bed when?
8:30 this morning." He sat down on his own bed to remove his
shoes.
"Well, she got to church, which is what you care about. I
don't know. She never seems to spend time with anybody but
Steven. I wouldn't mind if she still had sleep-overs with her
friends...."
"One friend excepted," Wayne Bryant said. Once he had been a
husband to this woman. They had shared the triumphs of his
career, her wars with the neighbors. Hell, they had shared the
joys of their bodies, and they had shared a bed. Now, he was her
co-parent. Almost all they seemed to share these days was a
concern for Shannon.
"Oh, you! You're as bad as she is. Still, I guess it could
be worse."
"It could always be worse. We want it to be good. And all
her cave-man ancestry is there in her blood telling her that it
is time to become a mother. It isn't. She's going to
college."
"Do you think she is? That they?..." When she saw Shannon's
tousled appearance after a date, she worried about what she had
been doing; Shannon had been going steady for more than half a
year, and they worried that she and Steven were getting too
serious too soon, never dreaming that Shannon saw Steve more
often -- and more privately -- during her babysitting
appointments than on dates.
Wayne didn't think so, partly because imagining his chick
having sex filled him with fury. It must be fury. "No. But the
hormones in her blood are urging her on. As, without doubt, is
Steven. So *we* will weigh in on the other side. There is
a lot more time between the end of the dance and midnight than
there is between the end of the dance and eleven."
Allison looked at him. Bending over to put on his pajama
pants, he showed the beginnings of an erection, and it *was*
Sunday night. "Well," she said, "you'll have your way. I'll
tell her that the curfew stands when she brings it up again."
Then she disappeared into the bathroom with her nightgown and
robe.
When Wayne came back from his own bathroom break, he saw her
in his bed. He stripped off his pajamas before joining her.
"Hmmm," he said, "what have we here?"
They kissed for a while, and he stroked her breasts through
the nightgown. Abruptly, she sat up in the bed while he helped
her remove the gown.
Now he could kiss her breasts, bury his face between their
luscious abundances, suck the red tips to firmness. While he did
so, he played with her nether lips, seeking her moisture.
While her body reacted to his approaches, her mind wished he'd
let her breasts alone. Once, they had been firm mounds worthy of
his attention. Now they were loose sacks, only looking decent
when she poured them into wired brassieres. But the nipples
still betrayed her, and his hands knew her too well. As her body
responded to them again, one finger touched her clitoris. She
felt that touch from her follicles to her toenails, it suppressed
her mind and its preferences. He teased it, retreating,
advancing, circling. She was reduced to a body, he was reduced
to a finger.
When he reached her moisture, he spread it. He teased it
upwards to where her pleasure waited. His ear, pressed to her
chest, could hear her heart rate get faster. Slowly, in response
to his toying, her knees rose and spread. He sucked hard on her
breast one more time, and then left it to climb between her
legs.
The finger teased her, controlled her, mastered her. And then
he was more than just a finger. Something thicker, warmer, drew
the fluid up over her clitoris. It rubbed it directly, excited
it more fully, slid downward against it. Then it left her
clitoris to enter her. Driving into her body, it took
possession. Responding to it, her body rose and fell, rose and
tightened.
Sliding into that moisture at last, he was home. Stroking in
and out of her, feeling her respond to his strokes, he felt the
decades-old love swell and displace the years-old resentments.
This was his woman; this was his bride; this was his love. And
this was her response, as she kicked her heels against his thighs
and shuddered under him. Then those feelings disappeared. There
was only him, only his phallus, only his sensation of coming and
coming. Then he was lying on her.
For one instant, she was her body, soaring and pulsing;
responding to him, belonging to him. But, when she dropped onto
the bed, he scarcely noticed her. He was still moving
mechanically within her body, pouring himself into her, and then
lying on her. His torso crushed hers while his organ slid out,
trailing slime down her thigh. When he rolled off, she evaded
his grasp to return to the bathroom. Her body, clean and sweet-
smelling when she had lent it to him a few minutes ago was now
slack, mussed, and leaking his waste. Her left nipple was sore,
too.
Being married to Wayne was more pleasant than the marriages
that most of her friends seemed to have. Her body enjoyed its
marriage too. It was just that when her body and Wayne's went
off to have their fun, they always left the cleanup to her.
Wayne lay on the wet spot, too spent to move. He'd certainly
enjoyed himself, and -- more important -- he knew that Allison
had too. He just wished that she would acknowledge it
afterwards. But, as usual, she came back from the bathroom
dressed in nightgown and robe, climbed into her own bed, turned
away from him, and seemed to go to sleep. Did she know that she
slept on her left side only when they had either quarreled or
made love?
- = -
Shannon's next babysitting job was with the Jensens; and they
wouldn't let Steve visit. She could almost understand.
"Amy's been having a real good period," Mr. Jensen told her,
"but this was a bad day. Well, after Theresa, I'd trust her best
with you. Tell me about the inhaler; tell me about the pills."
She covered both. "We'll be having dinner at the Blue Ox. It's
about forty minutes away. The number is by the phone. Peggy
will wake in about two hours. The bottle is in the 'fridge. Help
yourself to the munchies, but don't let Amy see them. Graham
crackers are okay. Dr. Wyatt's number is by the phone, as well.
Same place as always. I know that I say the same things every
time. Enjoy yourself; you know how to get all the channels?"
She did, but that wasn't as much of a perk as Mr. Jensen
thought. Shannon's secret about her job was that she enjoyed the
company of most of the children more than the after-the-kids-are-
in-bed entertainment. That didn't count, of course, the
entertainment that Steve provided.
Amy clung to her mother and then cried for five minutes after
she had left; then, however, she sat in Shannon's lap while they
read stories. Shannon wasn't particularly surprised when Amy
almost dropped off before her bed time. They went though the
ritual. When Amy was tucked in, Shannon sat by the bed while Amy
eased into sleep. Peggy was all right, and then there was only
homework or the extra channels.
Shannon was reading her history book -- well, she was thinking
about Steve's hands and lips on a long-ago day at the meadow; but
the book was open in front of her and she had actually read half
the chapter -- when Amy came down the hall to announce that she
felt sick. One look told Shannon that the inhaler wasn't going
to work. This was a time for the pill, and Shannon took out the
last pill from the bottle and fed it to Amy. They cuddled while
the pill began its work. Shannon started for the phone. The
Jensens must have known that it was the last pill, but she'd
mention it when she called. The restaurant, however, couldn't
find the Jensens. That meant that they would be back within --
what had he said? -- forty minutes which would be....
Shannon knew, as well as anyone, the schedule of Hauksbee's
drug store. It would close in ten minutes, and the workers would
be out in fifteen. Hauksbee, who had long before tired of people
pounding on the glass while he tried to close up, had it cleaned
in the mornings. She knew that she would look like a damn fool
in four chances out of five; but Amy was a sweet kid, and would
be in danger in the fifth case. She dialed Hauksbee's. "Steve?
Thank God it's you. Listen one minute then I'll have to talk to
Mr. Hauksbee; I'll tell him that you will deliver some medicine
here after work. Back me, please back me!"
"Of course I'll back you," he said. He didn't like the tone
of her voice. "Are you at home?"
"No. I'm babysitting." She gave him the address. She took a
deep breath before Mr. Hauksbee came on the phone. She gave him
the prescription number, and read him the other material from the
label on the pill bottle. "I gave her the last pill. She's a
little kid. If they haven't bought some quite recently, then
they are out of the medicine. Look, I know it's a lot to ask,
but Steve will drop it by here. If you could check out if
they've maybe bought a bottle today and it's likely to be in a
coat pocket still, that would be nice. But I'll pay for it if
worst comes to worst, I just don't want her to have an attack
without her medicines being here."
"I'll check the prescription. Give me the phone number, and
I'll get back to you if there is a problem."
"Is this your girl?" he asked Steve when he had looked up the
data.
"Yes. Shannon is rock solid. If you don't get paid any other
way, you can take the cost out of my pay."
"I'll get paid. They haven't bought any really recently, but
they should have more than half of the last bottle left. Give me
the address." Steve did, and it checked. "Tell them that they
are using it too fast. Tell them to check with Dr. Wyatt in the
morning."
The last thing Carl Hauksbee was worried about was getting
paid for the medicine. There had already been a drugstore in the
mall outside of town when he'd bought this place; back then Olsen
had admitted his fears that he would have to close the business
at a loss. Hauksbee's was still in business partly because
Hauksbee took care of his customers. And Dr. Wyatt had backed
him when the store was picketed over the magazines he had on his
rack. Hauksbee wasn't about to put one of Dr. Wyatt's patients at
risk. He sent Steve off with the pills a few minutes early.
- = -
Bill Jensen was in a fine mood on his way back from the
restaurant. It was as far as they had got from town since
Peggy's birth, and he had watched the worry lines ease from
Theresa's face. The mood shifted when he saw a strange car in
his driveway. Seeing Steve on the porch didn't help. "Shannon,
didn't I ask you not to entertain anyone while you sat for us.
Who is this?"
"I work for Hauksbee's drugs," said Steve. "Shannon thought
that there might be an emergency."
"Is Amy all right?" asked Mrs. Jensen.
"She's fine now," answered Shannon. "She had another attack,
though." Mrs. Jensen rushed in to see her daughter. "I gave her
a pill," Shannon continued. "It was the last one. You may have
some more somewhere else, but I couldn't reach you. Steve wasn't
in the house; he was doing me a favor."
"The last pill?" said Mr. Jensen. "Come with me."
They went through the house to the kitchen. He found the pill
bottle still in its bag on top of the refrigerator.
"I really should have told you," said Mr. Jensen. "What would
have happened if she had another attack?"
"That's why Shannon called me," Steve said. "I brought over
another bottle. But Mr. Hauksbee told me to insist that you call
the doctor in the morning." He would have liked to say something
cutting; but he felt that he represented Hauksbee's just then,
and snapping at a customer wasn't his privilege. The old man,
now, snapped when he chose.
"Just a minute," said Mr. Jensen. "Let me take this where it
belongs." By the time that Steve drove Shannon home, he had an
apology and a firm invitation to visit Shannon anytime that she
babysat there.
"I still feel that he was snooty when he first came in," Steve
said.
"He's just nervous whenever they're away," Shannon answered.
"She's called me in twice and then refused to go out. He says
that she needs it. Once they went, once he paid me a bit and
drove me home. They're just worried. Wait till you meet Amy and
Peggy, they're such sweet kids. And thanks for helping me
out."
"Anytime," he answered. "You're my girl. I want to be there
for you."
"Leave me off in the street in front of the house. I don't
want to explain why it was you and not Mr. Jensen." She did give
him a light kiss, though.
- = -
Their very next kiss was at the Pollocks'. This time Shannon
had worn a skirt, and knee-high socks. They settled into an easy
chair in the corner which was farthest from Kyle Pollock's
bedroom (not that Kyle had ever awakened while she sat for him).
She perched sideways on Steve's knees while he unhooked her bra
with his by-now-practiced left hand.
Steve held Shannon's weight in his lap. It was a little more
than his legs really wanted to support in that position, but it
was truly intimate contact. Her sweet thighs pressed into his
legs, and her unmentionable -- but so often imagined -- mystery
touched his left thigh. He was lost in the play of tongues for
one minute, then freed her breasts from sweatshirt and bra. Given
full rein, his hand explored that smoothness, and then the
roughness of the areolae, and finally the responsive firmness of
the nipples. When he broke the kiss, his lips took her right
breast while his hand still played with the left one.
Shannon found that her enjoyment of the kiss, however deep and
lovely, and Steve's caresses on her breasts, however thrilling,
had been compromised by her nervous anticipation of what might
come next. Sure enough, Steve began stroking her legs as soon as
he kissed her breast. She relaxed into the arousal from his
suction on her nipples and his smoothing of her skirt down her
left leg.
The skirt, with its promise of access to her smooth legs, had
beckoned Steve from the beginning. He stroked down the rough
fabric compulsively. He kept reminding himself that they had
lots of time, but he couldn't forget that this was the only layer
of cloth between him and Shannon. His third pass reached her
sock. He stroked upward to her bare knee and rested for a
moment.
Shannon had stopped paying attention to particulars well
before his hand reached her bare right thigh. That caught her
attention! For one thing, his hand was cold; but that was the
less important cause of her shivers. She had imagined that his
hand caressed her there, pretended that his hand stroked there,
brought herself to climax starting with an imitation of his hand
stroking there. But her imaginings had never been accompanied by
suction on her breasts, and she had never felt quite the tingle
in her thighs that Steven evoked there. Her legs clasped
together for one moment, and then they fell apart. So did
she.
Steve was expecting some objection, but none came. Even when
he reached the smooth, bare thigh, her only response was to trap
his hand by pressing her legs together. He stopped then, but
moved upward again when she released the pressure.
Steve knew that one reason that Shannon allowed him the
liberties she did was that he always stopped when she told him
to; but he was far from sure that he could stop this time when
the inevitable command came. She didn't say a word, just
breathed more deeply two inches above his ear. Then he reached
the sweetness that he had only glimpsed once, months before, but
had imagined every night since. Shannon felt his hand touch her
panties. Then he was clasping all of her there, her mound and
her lips, through the thin cloth.
"Oh Shannon," he said. The way he spoke her name made her
feel that he was sharing her feeling of exaltation. She clasped
her legs together again. Then, she pulled his face to hers for a
sweet kiss. She kissed him, hungrily, desperately, she pulled
his head into the kiss as hard as she wished he would clasp
her.
The kiss excited Steve, but not nearly as much as the
acceptance it signaled did. His palm kept up a light pressure
while his fingers began to move back and forth. Her hips moved
in response to his touch.
They were more responsive, she thought, to his hand than they
ever were to her own. She needed something more, but mostly she
needed to breathe. When she freed herself from his mouth to gulp
in air, he moved to her left breast. That suction spiraled her
to a tension which she knew couldn't be relieved while she wore
those panties. And then it was relieved. She writhed under his
real touch more than she had ever writhed under the imagined one.
Experienced in the need to keep silent, she clamped her jaws
tight to contain her moans. Then she sagged in his arms. It
should have been much less comfortable than her bed, but it was
comfort and support and love and safety -- until he moved her off
his lap.
When he had touched her panties, Steve's hand had been at the
center of his every dream. He'd had his mouth on the sweetest
morsel that he had ever tasted. It was unthinkable that he would
be distracted. But distracted he was. Her hip, pressed against
his erection, began to move. With her moans in his ear and her
warmth under his hand, he felt mostly his own culmination in
glory. And then in stickiness. He was too sated to move, then
he was too pleased by his location to move, and then he was too
embarrassed to move.
Finally, however, he had to move. He put Shannon down on the
couch beside him and shuffled out of the living room to the
bathroom. Some of it had seeped through to his trousers, more of
it was on his shirt and undershirt. He cleaned all of that off.
His underpants were beyond recall, he would have dumped them if
he weren't afraid that someone would find them. He finally
scraped them (somewhat) clean, rinsed them, wrapped them in a
good portion of the toilet paper then on the roll, and stuffed
them in his pocket. It felt odd walking down the hall bare
against his trousers. He stuffed the incriminating roll into his
back pack. When he turned to face Shannon, he blushed beet-
red.
She smiled at him impishly. He blushed more deeply at that,
but soon they were both laughing uproariously. "Come kiss me,"
she said.
The kiss was tentative at first, and they each broke it with
grins. By the time they had finished, however, it was a sign of
passion and a seal of love.
She looked at her watch. "Shouldn't you get home sometime
soon?" He had stayed later previous times, but knew that she was
right. This night was over.
They kissed again, more lightly. "I love you," he said.
"I love you, too," she replied. She said it lightly, some
words to end an evening; but she meant it more deeply than she
ever had before.
She thought about the evening while she cleaned up herself,
and then the living room. She hadn't meant for them to go that
far, was her first thought; she would have to find a way to
control their making out. Then her fundamental honesty took
over. She hadn't meant it to go that far, *yet*. She loved
Steve, she wanted Steve, she had dreamed of Steve's hand just
where it had been (except for the panties in the way). They were
just moving awfully fast.
What she would have to work on was not a way of turning back
the clock, but a way of slowing down their momentum. She might
need a way to keep Steve from doing anything so embarrassing
again, as well. But those were details; she dreamily recalled
her feelings until the Pollocks came home. Later, snuggled safe
in her bed, she did her best to reproduce them.
When she awoke the next morning, there was an e-mail in her
box:
Sweet Shannon,
Last night, I said "I love you." You might have thought
that this was just the excitement of the moment talking.
But it wasn't. I loved you then. I love you now. I've
loved you every minute in between. Anyway, I don't have
any earth-shattering news to tell. Just what you should
be able to figure out for yourself.
Steve loves Shannon.
- = -
"Your friend with the asthmatic baby paid for the prescription
the next evening," Hauksbee told Steve when he was next at work.
"Thinks our service is great. Of course, it is. But thanks for
holding up the tradition."
And it didn't end even there. The next time he deposited his
check in the bank, the teller looked at him strangely. "You're
Shannon's young man, aren't you? I'm Bill Jensen, Amy's father.
Thanks again for what you did."
Steve still thought that Mr. Jensen had been a prick, but he
was being nice enough now. "You're welcome," he said. He picked
up his bankbook and two week's cash and walked out.
- = -
Steve had retaken part 1 of the College boards when he took
part 2. The results were somewhat disappointing. His Math score
was only 20 points higher, 650 rather than 630. His Verbal score
had actually dropped from 580 to 570. The chemistry was a strong
710; the math achievement was good at 670. English composition,
at 510, was his weak spot; but he had expected that. Indeed, if
he felt one of the tests overrated him, it was that one.
Even so, he felt he still had some chance at IIT. And Mrs.
Swenson, who had experience with the U of I, thought that they
were 95% sure to accept him.
- = -
Steve's notes on the English assignment were a little hard to
read. It looked like page 340, but that made the reading
assignment shorter than Mrs. Foster usually gave. Besides, that
was the class he shared with Shannon. He had a perfect excuse to
call her.
"Bryant residence, Allison Bryant speaking." It was Shannon's
mother.
"Mrs. Bryant? This is Steve. Could I talk to Shannon,
please. I'm not clear about the English homework."
"I'm sorry, Steven. Shannon's babysitting tonight."
"Not for Mrs. Green, I hope."
She laughed briefly. "No. For the Larkins. But I don't
think that you should call her there. Why don't you ask another
person in your class?" She knew why not, but she was willing to
keep up the social fiction. Indeed, aside from what the family
was paying for the second line, she didn't mind the kids' long
phone chats. Even then, the second line was useful for (and
charged off on their taxes as necessary for) her real-estate
business.
"Well, thank you very much. And I'm sorry to have bothered
you."
"No bother."
While Shannon's mother might not have been bothered, Steve
definitely was. Why hadn't she told him she was going to be
babysitting for the Larkins? And on a Tuesday, too!
Shannon got a note when she returned home:
"Steven called. He said it was about English.
"SSS"
She knew that the last line stood for "Shannon's social
secretary." Considering the number of messages that she took for
her mom, the joke had lost what little humor it originally had.
- = -
As they were leaving English class, Steve said to her. "I
drove today. You can have a ride home, if you still want to talk
to me." Then he ducked off. Chasing him would make a spectacle
of herself; he was spectacle enough with his long stride.
Besides, she had a class on the other side of the building and
needed to go in the opposite direction.
"'Still want to talk to you'?" she asked at lunch. They both
got there early, and had two minutes before their table got
crowded. By now, she had a suspicion of what was bothering Steve.
But she didn't want to discuss her period with him, let alone
with him in front of a third of the school. She opened the box
of chocolate milk.
"You didn't tell me that you were going to be babysitting for
the Larkins."
"I didn't want you over that night. I had a visit from my
friend on Monday." She took a deep sip of the milk, which served
to cover her blush.
"Well," Steve said, "if you would rather talk to your friend
than to me...."
She gasped, and the milk went down the wrong pipe. Then she
coughed it up, half running out her nose.
"Shannon!" Steve said. He pounded her back, and she got her
breath back. By this time they were the center of a crowd.
"Thanks." She managed to say. "I do want a ride home. I'll
meet you at your car. Now, I've got to get myself cleaned up.
Guard my tray, will you?"
Steve, totally confused and rather angry, considered tossing
out her food himself. But he'd been loyal to Shannon for a long
time, and it didn't really sound like she was dumping him.
Beside the waste of her money would probably bother him more than
it would bother her. Shannon didn't think money was real unless
she was spending it. He guarded her tray until she returned. At
that point he had to leave for class.
Shannon was late to math, but she had a good excuse. She
raced to Steve's car at the end of the day. He'd looked mad
enough to leave without her.
"Get us out of here," she said when he arrived, "and I'll
explain everything." When they were alone in the car, however,
it was harder than she had thought. "Look straight ahead,
please."
Steve looked straight ahead. Was she going to break up with
him? Was that why she needed the privacy of the car? Was it
because he had expressed such reservations about going to college
with her? But his reasons for choice of college were sounder
than hers, and he hadn't actually said no.
"I don't," Shannon began, "like talking about my menstrual
periods... especially to you. They make me feel icky. I want to
feel something else, pretty perhaps, or romantic, when I'm around
you. But I'd rather feel embarrassed around you than break up
with you."
He looked over at her sharply. She did want to continue, but
what about this friend?
"Don't look at me!" she said. She could feel her face
burning. "Anyway, my period started Monday. I was feeling icky
and my breasts were sore. I didn't want to feel icky around you.
I didn't want you touching me. I sure didn't want to tell you
why I didn't want you touching me. I don't like doing it now.
And ten people asked why I had choked on the milk. I couldn't
tell them. Can't you trust me a little bit?" And, if he
couldn't, did he have to be so damned dense? It had been funny,
though.
"Sure." Which was a lie, but he could act as if he weren't
jealous. Maybe he could. "But then this friend...."
"Was my period, silly. It's what we say."
Now his face was red as a beet. He was still staring straight
ahead, but she hadn't promised not to look.
"Um, Shannon," he said as they got near her house. The drive
was never long enough. "I can understand it if you don't want
even that, but I'm open to study dates if that is all you want.
After all, it was at the Larkins."
She laughed. "I'll think about it. Now get home; you'll
barely have time to eat before you leave for the drugstore."
"Yes, Mama."
- = -
Fueled by her mother's enthusiasm, Shannon had been looking
forward to attending Albion for two years. The acceptance letter
should have made her happier than it did. She could see Steve's
point, though. She decided to say nothing to him until the U of
Illinois responded.
Her mother, however, was unambiguously thrilled. She called
her husband at work with the news. Wayne Bryant, who ran the
finance side of County Hospital, was as excited as she was. At
dinner he noticed that the family member least excited by the
news was Shannon.
"What's wrong, Chick?" he asked.
"The thing is, Dad, that I'm not sure that I want to go to
Albion. Steve and I want to go to the same school, and he
applied there. But he doesn't think that it would prepare him
for chemical engineering."
"A liberal arts education is a good preparation for any
career," Allison said. "He'll be a lot better prepared for
chemistry than you would be prepared to teach history at the
University. It's not just the courses; it's the life. You learn
to relate to people, and you are introduced to the thinking of
the ages."
Wayne had heard it all before. His wife's picture of what
went on at a big university didn't represent his memories of
Michigan State very accurately, but that didn't matter. She had
been happy at Albion; Shannon would be happy at Albion. If he'd
had a son, he might have put up more fight, but he *did*
think that a small denominational college would be slightly more
protective of his daughter.
Shannon was bright, but she'd never seemed to want to learn
anything in particular, never seemed to want a particular career.
She was good with children, and would make a fine teacher. But
he couldn't believe that she would be happy as an old maid. He
could admit to himself that he was jealous of Steven, who seemed
to be stealing his Chick away when she was too young to leave the
nest. Still, that was what she wanted.
"But Mom," Shannon said, "Albion's average SAT's are
*lower* than those of the U of I. How can you say that the
educational experience is superior?"
"Admission tests hardly measure the educational experience,
dear. It's interacting with all those other young people who are
there to learn. A big university doesn't have that; you are a
faceless number."
"I can't see that being there to learn is totally independent
of scores. Why didn't they learn in high school?"
Wayne couldn't see that, either. But he kept his mouth shut
as he watched the two people whom he loved most lock into a
situation where one of them was going to be quite unhappy.
After Shannon left for her babysitting job, Wayne helped load
the dishwasher. There was very little that he could hide from
Allison in any case, but this was nearly a signal.
"Are you going to turn against me, too?" she asked. She was
sure that Shannon had.
"I wouldn't call it that."
"What would you call it?"
"I'd call it accepting that our little Chick is about to fly
out of the nest," he said. "We knew that this was coming. Let's
not have her leave hating us."
"You've changed your mind since we talked about the curfew.
And *I* am the person who enforces your rule."
That was a little unfair. Allison had thought that they might
ease that rule; he'd been against it. But she'd agreed. The
fight went round and round. Finally he said, "We will support
Shannon if she wants to go to the U of I; we said essentially
that years ago. You can still tell her how despicable an
education people like her father got at big state universities.
But if you don't tell her that her decision is final, I
will."
The hospital was open all night. He was seriously tempted to
return to his office. He stayed home, watching TV until Allison
had gone to bed. She was facing away from his empty bed,
however, when he went up. This time he faced away from her,
too.
The next evening was a little friendlier, but nobody mentioned
college. Tension eased over the next few days, without resolving
anything substantial.
Continued in Part 3
Heart Ball
Uther Pendragon
nogardneprethu@gmail.com
2001/01/18
2003/01/21
2010/01/26
This is one of a series of pages holding the novel
*Heart Ball*.
The next page in the series is:
heart_c.txt Part 3
The first page in the series is:
heart_a.txt Part 1
The directory to all my stories can be found at:
index.txt