("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._
`6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`)
(_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-'
_..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,'
(((' (((-((('' ((((
K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
_________________________________________
WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
material. If you do not wish to read this
type of literature, or you are under age,
PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
_________________________________________
Scroll down to view text
Archive name: sari6.txt (mf, youth, rom, ped)
Authors name: Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)
Story title : Sari and my Alter Ego and Me
--------------------------------------------------------
This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial
"free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites.
Thank you for your consideration.
--------------------------------------------------------
The Sari Saga: Sari and my Alter Ego and Me (teens, ped)
by Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)
***
Sari stared. I have seen those beautiful, deep eyes in a
dozen different moods. But I never seen them reflect such
complete bewilderment as when we were sitting in the caf‚
of the ski station at Bronstadt. She was sipping cola
though a twisty, multicoloured straw. She froze, and it
was as if the liquid in the straw had also frozen to a
dark shadow.
Her eyes widened. There was a look of consternation and
incredulity on her face as she gaped past me towards the
entrance. I turned to look in the direction of her
astonished gaze. And I have to admit it: the sensation
was of having a hundred dentists' drills working
simultaneously on a raw nerve.
"Good God! It's me!"
It was as if I had been caught up in some out-of-body
experience. Or like one of those silly looking-glass
routines in an old-fashioned Charlie Chaplin movie where
the reflected image is doing something entirely different
from what the person in front of the mirror is doing,
like stripping when the real person is dressing. It was a
true case of Geworfenheit, like being tossed into one of
our own home videos. The young man who had entered the
low-ceilinged cafeteria could have been my identical
twin. The unspectacular fact that he wore ski clobber to
match approximately what I was wearing somehow made me
feel sick in the stomach.
"And here was me thinking I was unique!" I tried to make
light of the situation, but I felt as discomfited as Sari
looked. I can honestly say that I have never been more
disoriented than at that moment. Even the words did not
seem to belong to me; it was the kind of thing that
happens when you hear your recorded voice for the first
time.
Sari increasingly sensed my unease. The confused
expression on her face gradually melted. It turned to
fear - a dread of the unknown. I have seen Sari annoyed,
angry, even livid with rage and I have seen her puzzling
over some problem, but mostly there has been a look of
silent contentment on her face; as a matter of fact, I
have never known anyone who has been happier with what
nature and good fortune has bestowed, or more capable of
dealing with the emergencies of life. And I have
certainly never come across another face I would rather
kiss.
This was the first time that I had seen her truly
terrified and totally floundering. Even on that awful
night of the advent of her illness when she had come to
my bed on what she called 'her worst of summers', what
was registered on her face was a quality of anguish or
torment that could not even approximately approach what I
now saw. It worried me that it could lead to some kind of
relapse in her recovery or to some new trauma set to
trouble her. I had to make the effort to reassure her.
"It's only someone who has the good fortune to look like
me."
Tears formed in her eyes, and that made me angry. I did
not know what I could do about it because I did not know
what it was that angered me, and this made me angrier. I
turned again to look at this alter ego who had invaded
our intimacy. The boy - he was certainly no older than I
was - looked around the busy establishment; he shifted
from one foot to another, uncertain of himself. It was
obvious that he was looking for someone who was not
there, for he abruptly spun round and left.
Sari stared at the empty doorway long after he had left.
"What if he tries to make love to me?" she asked. I
thought she was being facetious, but her moist eyes were
pitifully earnest. "How can I be sure it isn't you?"
"Looks are less than half a person," I reminded her.
"You'll know! Anyway we have our own built-in safeguards;
we have our own secret words..."
The visit to Bronstadt was Grandma Jaksen's idea. She had
inherited the station with the neighbouring hotel and the
adjoining properties from her late husband. The idea was
seconded by my parents, and Cheri Innis could do little
else than agree. The prospect of our sharing the entire
Christmas holiday had helped return Sari to something
very close to her buoyant normality.
Indeed, she had never looked lovelier or sexier. Not only
had a depth of healthy colour returned to her complexion
on the day we set off, but there was the characteristic
glint of humour and mischief in her eyes and a lightness
and eagerness in her every movement by the time we
reached Bronstadt. This was Sari of old! This was the
girl I intended to marry and who was going to provide me
with lots and lots of children.
"There is absolutely no reason why she shouldn't live a
normal, healthy life," the white-coated consultant at the
hospital had assured me. After due consideration, he
added solemnly, "In a few years!" He elaborated when he
noticed concern written large on my face. "Her physical
development will appear indolent for some time. Until
well into her late teens, in fact, she will look very
much as she does now - eleven or twelve or perhaps
thirteen at best. The spurt will come around her
twentieth birthday."
Almost as an afterthought, when he studied me for some
time, he added, "She certainly won't be able to conceive
until her mid-twenties." He walked away from me then spun
round on his heels and added, "That, of course does not
mean that she won't have the urges!" And the double
negative branded itself on my brain. "I think it only
right to warn you. She will have urges!" There was a long
pause, after which he exclaimed, "And how! Oh, boy! And
how!"
It was shortly before dinner on the following evening at
Bronstadt that my double appeared again. Cheri Innis,
drinking a cocktail of fruit juices, Sari with her usual
cola, and I were in the bar adjoining the vast dining
room. We sat on a half-moon, heavily velveted banquette.
He appeared with three older people, possibly parents and
a grandparent. The others nodded politely in passing or
mumbled some courtesy.
The boy, however, hesitated. He stared, not at me, but at
Cheri and Sari. His eyes darted from one to the other.
Mother and daughter were dressed in identical mini-
skirted outfits, which showed both figures, especially
their fantastic legs, to optimum advantage. It has to be
said that the pair had turned more than a few heads in
their direction already. Had it not been for the obvious
difference in ages, they could well have been twins. The
boy's eyes scanned Cheri before settling on Sari; it was
transparently obvious that his imagination was working
overtime, and if ever there was a case of visual
stripping, this surely was it.
There was a look of indescribably desperate hunger as
Sari, almost in an unconscious animal gesture widened the
gap between her knees and allowed the skirt to ride up
her thighs. There was also arrogance in the look when he
finally afforded me a glance; it was one of summary
dismissal, as if he had evaluated the possibility of
prising Sari from me and considered it little more than
mere formality.
"He'll know us the next time he sees us," declared Cheri
aloud, and the boy, as if remembering where he was,
smiled an apology and moved on.
I laughed. "He'll certainly know your legs!" It was a
hollow laugh. I wanted to break his jaw. "Especially
Sari's!"
Sari, still eyeing the boy with some alarm, whispered,
"It's your look-alike, Lor! Your double!" She brought her
knees together.
"Nonsense," snapped her mother. "He is nothing at all
like Lor!" She regretted the acerbity in her voice, and
added, "There may be a passing resemblance, but little
more than that. Lor has far deeper blue eyes, and his
hair is much darker, and his chin doesn't come a point
like that boy's. And Lor has dimples on his cheeks.
Apart from anything else, Lor would never for a moment
dream of staring at people so rudely!"
Sari dragged her eyes away from the boy to stare
curiously at her mother. She shifted her glance casually
to me, and mumbled, "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps he is
nothing like Lor." And a most peculiar smile played on
her lips. She rubbed her knee against mine. She smirked.
"That's a strange thing! I never noticed Lor's dimples
before."
"It's just that you didn't pay any attention to them,"
retorted Cheri, and mother and daughter laughed together,
and I sighed relief. I knew that they were making some
kind of joke, but I completely failed to understand it. I
sensed the tension dripping away from Sari. And my love
for her increased beyond melting point.
During dinner, when we were joined by the others, grandma
Jaksen beckoned the maitre d'h“te. The man was plainly
terrified of the old woman and bowed and trembled before
her. She stared at him in disbelief and barked in perfect
German, "Pull yourself together! There is nothing amiss!
The food and service are excellent."
The man smiled patent relief, but his extreme nervousness
remained, and the old woman eyed him with increasing
contempt. She added, "But don't become too complacent -
I'll be here for another week!" She indicated with
slight movement of her hand. "Now tell me, who are the
people sitting at the far corner table: the elderly
gentleman, the boy who looks like my grandson here, and
the two others?"
The man breathed more easily. He could answer with
confidence. "They are Americans, madam!" The old man, he
explained, was a dispossessed count, originally Estonian;
the family had lost their property in the first world
war. The boy was called Hector Lansdorf, the old man's
grandson, and the other two were the boy's parents. The
father was born in the United States and had made a
fortune in advertising. They were regular guests at the
hotel. The boy had actually been selected as a possible
member of the United States' Winter Olympics team, and he
had done most of his introductory training at the ski
station at Bronstadt.
Sari was impressed. She has this one foible: she cannot
help but genuinely admire people who have exceptional
ability in any field. Her admiration multiplies when the
talent happens to be something she is good at. Whenever I
want to make her laugh, I tell her that's why she is so
attracted to me: it is because I am so charming and
incomparably handsome and quite outstandingly and
brilliantly minded!
Later that same night, Sari came to my bed. She curled up
alongside me and purred in her own inimitable way. "My
mother is in love with you!" she whispered and chuckled
softly.
"It's mutual, I can assure you," I replied with as much
lightness as I could muster. I kissed her. Our kissing
had reached and surpassed the former passionate glory.
"Indeed, were it not for the fact that I am going to
marry you, just as soon as you show the first sign of
growing up." She dug an elbow into me. I yelped, and it
was not all pretence; Sari's elbows have to be felt to be
believed - but that goes for everything about Sari. "...I
would be with her like a shot!" I cut myself short; I had
been about to say, "As soon as your mum and dad get
divorced!" But her dad's absences from home still hurt.
After a long silence, long enough to allow a suspicion of
sleep to creep up on us, Sari crooned, "I wouldn't mind
if you were really in love with my mother." There was
another prolonged silence. "Just as long as you still
loved me." The silence was reprised. "Will you always
love me, Lor?"
"Of course I will. You know perfectly well I will!"
"Even if I fall in love with someone else?" The silence
was becoming unbearable when she continued. "I would
always love you and I would always want to come back to
you!" I pretended to be asleep. I breathed heavily. Sari
crawled on top of me and kissed my sleeping lips. "Even
if I make love to anyone else, I could never love them
the way I love you!"
And that was the way we fell asleep for real, with Sari
repeating, "I promise! I promise!"
Sari left the nursery slopes before she left nursery
school. There was never any serious doubt about it: she
was a far better skier at the age of six than I shall
ever be. She and her mother did things together on the
piste to bewilder and terrify spectators; I chose not to
look. They tended to behave like responsible human beings
on skis in my presence or when my parents or grandma
Jaksen were anywhere in sight. Just occasionally they
would do things to frighten the daylight out of me, then
laugh hilariously and kiss me passionately which made it
all worth-while.
It was during one of these hare-brained exhibitions by
Cheri and Sari that my alter ego appeared again.
Obviously impressed by their skill and desperate to show
off and steal some of the limelight, he attempted to
emulate their manoeuvres. Which is a bit like trying to
outbox Lennox Lewis or outfox Usama bin Laden. As he was
to find out to his cost.
As I watched through binoculars from a balcony of the
hotel, it happened so unnaturally that it was difficult
to believe it was for real. This was a potentially
Olympic class sportsman. Several minutes passed before
the gravity of the accident finally penetrated. Hector
Lansdorf slalomed in a figure-of-eight imitation of Cheri
and Sari, weaving his hips and hiccuping and pulsating
his movements, then he leapt from the snow over a steep
incline at a tremendous speed as they had done.
His skis glinted in the sunshine as they crossed. They
did not uncross. He appeared to hesitate in mid-air as if
uncertain of what to do next. He jerked fitfully and
crumpled like a man who has been shot, before
somersaulting awkwardly with splayed arms and crashing
head-first to earth. From where I watched on the balcony
of the station, I could almost hear the crunching bones
and ripping flesh as broken skis tore into him.
Both Sari and Cheri had waved to him when he first set
out to follow. Through the binoculars I could see the
amused smirk on their faces. It struck me as funny too;
they thought it was me! When the accident happened, both
struggled back uphill. Sari reached him first.
Terror was written over her face. She kissed him
tearfully and held his hand to her breast. She seemed
hysterical until her mother reached the scene and pulled
her daughter away. Cheri gave the prone body oral
resuscitation while Sari felt for a heartbeat. After
several minutes they changes places, Sari giving the
injured boy the kiss of life, and Cheri banging on his
chest.
They stopped. My heart almost stopped too. They both
stood up and back from the apparently dead boy and
engaged in an animated discussion, Cheri pointing at the
prone body and Sari affording herself another and closer
look. I was on the point of turning away to get the ski
rescue men on the job when I noticed simultaneously Cheri
using her petite mobile telephone and the Bronstadt
ambulance crew setting off from the station. It seemed a
lifetime, but the entire episode was over in less than
fifteen minutes. I went to the landing of the ski station
and watched as Hector Lansdorf was brought back up the
slopes encased in a blanketed stretcher. A helicopter
fluttered ominously overhead.
Sari, tear-stained face and pouting lip, clung to a
solemn-faced Cheri. They followed at a distance, quite
convinced that the boy had died. When they finally
reached the landing, Sari glowered unadulterated
hostility in my direction, then ran tearfully towards the
hotel. I followed, but she locked herself in her room.
It was hours later when she reappeared. I was standing in
the lobby of the hotel idly reading a flier about a
production by a local operatic group. She flung herself
at me, wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed as only
Sari could. She was still in tears.
"I thought it was you, Lor," she sobbed. "I thought you
were dead. And I knew that I couldn't go on living
without you." She clung to me. "Can we get married?
Please? I need to make love to you."
This was no whispered sentimental sweet-talk. She spoke
in a firm, albeit tearful, treble. There were several
eavesdroppers who, in passing, threw us some peculiar
looks. After all Sari had only turned eleven! And I have
to confess that I looked older than my eighteen years. I
held her tightly in my arms. My mind was racing. I had
caught sight of Cheri standing at the reception desk. She
was staring at us with a most peculiar gleam on her face
that radiated contentment and intrigue. She was also a
slightly larger than life copy of her daughter, an alter
ego, every bit as beautiful and sexually alluring. And I
realised that I was madly in love with both of them.
"Boy!" I grunted. "Have I got problems!"
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life in
anyway shape or form.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 19