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Archive name: sari5.txt (mf, youth, rom)
Authors name: Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)
Story title : Sari and the Worst of Summers

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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002.  Please
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The Sari Saga: Sari and the Worst of Summers 
by Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)

***

Sari becomes seriously ill and her boyfriend's success is 
somewhat soured.

***

Sari called it the most horrible summer of her life. I 
suppose it all started with the death of my grandfather 
Jaksen. She had met the old man no more than a dozen 
times, but in her childish imagination he had become the 
epitome of stability and reliability, almost of eternity, 
especially after her father had begun to make himself 
scarce at home. It helped also that Grandpa Jaksen was 
excessively wealthy and had no inhibitions about 
flaunting what he had. He would take the little girl up 
on his knee and give her a detailed list of all his 
assets worldwide and indicate the ones she would probably 
inherit after she married me. 

He would also tell her stories of life long ago in 
faraway places. He had Viking blood in him, he told her, 
and he would show her how his ancestors bound important 
captives, like kings and princes, tightly to the masts of 
their ships and the less important prisoners-of-war, who 
were to be sold as slaves, to the oars.

Sari, as you may have guessed, had a thing about tying, 
and being bound with ropes by grandpa Jaksen seemed to 
have reinforced the history lessons, for she used the 
tales with great effect at her schools and achieved 
enviable results. He also told her romantic stories about 
how he met grandma when they were still young children, 
and how they had vowed to love each other forever and a 
day. 

"Just like you and Lor!" he said. He told her how they 
were married when he was seventeen and she fifteen. They 
had been together ever since and never regretted a single 
day of their relationship. 

It was at the funeral, that Sari, dressed in appropriate 
mini-dress, sheer black tights and veiled hat, clutched 
my arm and demanded, "He is really dead? We won't ever 
see him again?" The impressive presence of death deeply 
affected her. I had the notion, not to mention the faint 
hope, that it would put an end to her tying fetish - a 
false hope if ever there was one. Tying up had become a 
longing to be possessed, thankfully by me, and an 
expression of real binding affection.

Then there followed the Simon Pratt affair, and again I 
supposed she would have had her fill of bondage. Again I 
was wrong. Inwardly though, I did not object - not 
really. Sari was turned on by the Simon Pratt experience, 
and Sari turned on has to be seen (and touched) to be 
believed. She is still the most delicately and 
deliciously scented rose petal in my treasure house of 
memories.

In rapid succession, before she had time to recover her 
breath, so to speak, Julie Pierce died while trying to 
abort her pregnancy. The news stunned the village. Sari 
had nightmares about it; she was extremely fond of Julie, 
who often partnered her in local tennis competitions. 
Julie had been so full of life and showed an enthusiasm 
for everything she did. Now, like grandpa Jaksen, she was 
dead! Dead ere her prime! Never to return! The clouds 
gathered. And Sari retreated.

A few days after Julie's death, the body of a local 
schoolteacher was found hanging from a tree in Burke's 
Wood. Again the county constabulary invaded our property 
- our place is adjacent to the local woods - as a matter 
of fact, the local woodland is part of our policies. And 
again the nose-picking detective insisted on knowing 
where everyone had been for the previous two or three 
days, and again seemed skeptical to the point of insolent 
disbelief at the answers he received. Locally, although 
it was tacitly admitted that it was proper to wait for 
the coroner's report, everyone agreed that it was 
suicide, that it was remorse for the death of Julie 
Pierce, and that there was no doubt about it - he was the 
father of Julie's dead child, no doubt about it at all! 

The teacher, Hector Lansbright, had also been the coach 
for the local tennis club and had helped Sari improve her 
game. It was a well-known fact that he habitually touched 
up the girls he coached, but, except for the case of 
Julie Pierce, his advances were generally harmless enough 
and mostly taken as good fun by the 'victims'.

I know that he felt up Sari on a couple of occasions; she 
told me so, but said that all the time he was doing it 
she kept thinking of me, and even admitted that she had 
encouraged his advances. Julie had boasted that 
Lansbright was her fianc‚e and that they were to be 
married as soon as she was sixteen. She had her parents' 
approval, she had said, and had already spoken to the 
local vicar and were taking instructions together.

Cheri Kinnis went off to her drying up session. She was 
expected to be away for at least eight weeks. Sari moved 
in with us, into the bedroom she so seldom used - she had 
got into the habit of sleeping with me. I knew things 
were amiss when she occupied the bedroom on her own. We 
still went long walks, splashed about in the swimming 
pool, played tennis and squash, went riding a couple of 
times, all the usual things we did together. But it was 
obvious, her heart was not in any of these activities. 
Even my parents could see that something was not quite 
right.

"What's wrong with Sari?" my mother asked. "She doesn't 
seem to be her usual ebullient self!" My mother had been 
a primary school teacher and used words like that, for 
real! And my father eyed me suspiciously and, in a tone 
that suggested I had better not have, demanded, "Have you 
been misbehaving with the child? Interfering with her?" 

The problem was not long in surfacing. It came during the 
first week of the long vacation from her school. A naked 
Sari woke me. It was more of an instinctive gesture than 
anything else: I glanced at the clock on my bedside 
table. The green digits glowed 03.17. Sari was in tears. 
There was a frightening urgency in her sobbing. Her whole 
body seemed to be vibrating. "Lor! I feel terrible," she 
said tremulously. She was shivering violently even though 
the summer heat in the room was stifling.

I threw back the bedclothes. She climbed in beside me. I 
cuddled her as usual, then pulled away instantly. Sari 
was burning! I felt her forehead and her chest. It was as 
though she was on fire. I felt her pulse; it was racing. 
"Stay where you are, sweetheart!" I climbed from the bed, 
telephoned our local medical practitioner, and woke my 
parents. My mother, who had been a voluntary trainee 
nurse at one time in her youth, took Sari's temperature 
and examined her closely. We both knew that this was more 
than a slight summer fever. Sari had fallen into a 
troubled sleep and was jerking frenetically in short 
spasms.

Dr. Simpson called for an ambulance as soon as he touched 
her. "I'm not going to make any spot diagnoses," he 
declared. "We'll wait till they look at her in hospital." 
He shook his head. "But I can tell you now: this is going 
to be serious. Indeed, I would say that the next seventy 
two hours will be critical." He shook his head sadly. It 
was a morbid underscoring of his words.

The three of us took turns at sitting by Sari's bed in 
hospital. She had been more than seventeen hours under 
close scrutiny by men and machines. She had tubes and 
pipes all over her body and was wrapped up in a thick 
plastic restraining garment with her arms crossed tightly 
against her chest. 

"Why the straitjacket?" The note of aggression was 
irrepressible, but I was worried to the point of 
dementia.

The consultant, white coated, stethoscope dangling from a 
torn pocket, was sympathetic. "It's not nearly as bad as 
it looks." He stroked Sari's hair, and I felt inclined to 
punch his face. "It's for her own protection!" Instantly, 
my mind flashed back to the time I first saw Sari bound 
up in sheets after the Halloween party. "She has a mild 
form of rheumatic chorea."

I yelled. "St. Vitus' Dance?" My stomach took a dip. I 
felt sick.

"Well, yes and no!" The man continued to caress my girl. 
"We feared the worst; we really believed it was a 
rheumatic fever brought on by a form of advanced 
Huntington's disease." He went on to describe the precise 
nature of her illness and the treatment she would 
require; she needed hospitalization and intensive 
medication for at least a week, and close attention at 
home for several weeks after that. "She should be fully 
recovered, back to normal by the time school starts again 
in the autumn." He pulled at the eyelid and pointed a 
torch at the pupil. "She has been heavily sedated and 
should be asleep for the next couple of hours. It would 
be advisable to have a face she recognises by her side 
when she wakes."

"I'll be here," I assured him. "I won't be going 
anywhere!"

He made to leave the room. He hesitated. "It may sound a 
strange thing to say." He retreated into silence for 
fully a minute. "But it has to be said," he decided. "She 
may require some kind of restraint when she gets home." 

He returned to the bed and jabbed at the straps of the 
straitjacket. "And this thing is so gross." He seemed 
reluctant to go on, but finally he said, "She will still 
have some of the indications of rheumatic chorea, 
involuntary jerking, for a week or so, especially when 
she gets tired, which may be slightly oftener than usual. 
It is nothing serious, I promise you. But you will have 
to be patient and tolerant with her. I recommend that you 
play some simple games with her with lots of close 
physical contact, like touch-tag or blind man's buff, 
coach and horses, that sort of thing. Tie her up 
occasionally! A piece of light rope around her arms and 
chest, or a leather belt about her legs should be 
sufficient." 

He elaborated for several minutes. He explained why he 
thought it necessary, and how it would help her recovery 
by making her feel secure and 'tied' to someone who 
really cared for her. He started caressing Sari again, 
brushing a few stray hairs away from her face. He faced 
me and exclaimed, "She is truly a beautiful child. You're 
a lucky fellow!" He eyed Sari again with obvious 
affection. Turning again to me, he said, "Appreciate 
her!" He made for the door and added, "While you can!" 
And that parting remark had me worried.

In the days that followed, sitting by her bedside, there 
were three occasions when I really believed she was 
slipping from my grasp. Twice, emergency resuscitation 
had to be applied, and once she jerked and twisted so 
violently that I had imagined the death throes as I had 
seen them performed by Donald Wolfit in a film based on 
Shakespeare's Hamlet. I also saw the need for the 
physical restraint. I also started to devise games to 
make life a bit more interesting both for Sari and 
myself, if and when I got her home. And, I confess, for 
the first time in many years, I cried like a baby. I did 
not want to lose my childhood sweetheart. 

It was at that point that Cheri Kinnis, who had cut short 
her drying out session, entered the private ward. She 
held my head close to her mound of Venus and caressed. 
"Sari is a lucky girl to have someone like you, Lor," she 
said soothingly. "Someone who cares for her as much as 
you do!" She crouched in front of me and kissed me full 
on the lips.

"I want to take her away," I replied through the tears. 
"I want to take her to some tropical island!"

"That may not be as unlikely and far-fetched as you 
think, Lor!" There was an odd note of mystery in the way 
she said it.

Sari's stay in hospital was longer than anticipated, but 
her convalescence went precisely as the white-coated 
medical consultant had predicted. Initially, during her 
first week home, she was uncharacteristically sullen. The 
first night home she slept with her mother, in their own 
house, but after that she insisted on sleeping with me. I 
had bought her a pair of Chinese silk pyjamas. A couple 
of times in the night she went into spasms of shaking and 
trembling. I held her tightly in my arms and she soon 
relaxed and went back to sleep. 

By the end of the second week in my bed, these spasms had 
all but disappeared. During the third week, as we 
prepared for bed, Sari discarded the pyjamas. "I think we 
have no further need of these," she said, and laughed, 
and climbed naked into bed. The relief was indescribable; 
it swept over me like an ocean breaker, washing away all 
the debris of doubt and depression. There was an air of 
certainty about it: Sari was going to be fine. It seemed 
months and years since I touched her last. Lady Cynthia 
was sweeter than she had ever been and for the first time 
ever in our long courtship, Sari's love juices poured 
down on my tongue. I cried again, from sheer joy!

A couple of days after this return to apparent normality, 
Sari had a setback. The first post had brought an 
official government envelope. It had my examination 
results: seven straight A's, two upper B's and a C for 
art (which was neither my favourite nor strongest subject 
at my prestigious boarding school). I was overjoyed; the 
results were better than I had anticipated. 'Cum lauda' 
in maths and physics and 'distinction' in chemistry. 
There was little to complain about in that! But Sari was 
less than impressed. She sulked all that day and during 
the night there were several spasms.

A couple of days later I received a letter of 
congratulations from the headmaster enclosing a little 
certificate, admitting me as a fellow former pupil of my 
prestigious alma mater, and stating that I 'had worthily 
upheld the traditions and the reputation of the school'. 
Tiny pools of tears remained in Sari's eyes all that day. 
The following day I received confirmation of a place in 
the Faculty of Science at Cambridge University, and Sari 
burst into an inconsolable sobbing. It continued unabated 
for another two days.

"You will be away for years and years," she said through 
the tears, "and I won't see you, and you will fall in 
love with someone else, and get married and forget that I 
ever existed."

"Now that is nonsense," I said as sternly as I could with 
Sari. "You know perfectly well that I could never love 
anyone else. You are the whole world to me. And I shall 
still be coming home nearly every weekend, and you will 
be coming to visit me as soon as I get settled in."

Sari turned away from me in a frenzy of sobs and shivers, 
then swung back at me and held me tightly. "Kiss me," she 
pleaded. And when we broke away after a long, slobbering 
kiss, she sighed. "This has been the worst ever summer of 
my whole life!"

***

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Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.

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