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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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Archive name: sari8.txt (Mf, ped)
Authors name: Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)
Story title : Sari's Side of the Story: Apologia
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
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The Sari Saga: Sari's Side of the Story (Mf, ped)
by Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com)
***
As the title suggests, this is the continuing Sari Saga
told from Sari's own side of the fence. The story deals
with an award given to Sari as a result of saving the
life of an American teenager whilst on the expedition.
***
The Sari Saga: Sari's Side of the Story:
Sari and her Apologia
At any time in my life, as far back as I can remember, if
anyone had asked me for my idea of a perfect companion to
share one's life, there would never have been any doubt
in my mind. My earliest recollection of such a person was
not of either parent (although my mother came a close
second) or of some fictitious super-hero of literature or
television, but of Lor.
He was the boy destined to be my partner for life; of
this I was utterly convinced. I was tied to him with
invisible bonds every bit as real to me as any ropes or
chains. It was a spiritual bondage, the kind of thing
that has to be experienced in order to be understood. And
it was a binding together, the origin of which was to be
found deeply embedded in the psyche of my childhood.
My earliest crystal clear memory was of climbing upon his
knees at one of the parties his parents seemed to throw
perpetually at their sprawling Georgian mansion, a
Halloween party it was, and I think I was six at the
time. I can remember feeling more secure and reassured by
his presence than by anyone or anything else at any time.
I wanted to be encased in his arms forever, bound to him
in an eternal serfdom. From that moment, I knew, and I am
sure Lor would agree, that we were Yin and Yang,
inseparable, and there was no way anyone could prise us
apart or replace the other. It was as plain and as simple
as that. That is true love.
Having made this plain however, I know only a few heroin
addicts, but I don't know one who would turn his nose
away from a snort of coke. Because you are captivated by
a Mozart opera does not mean you are incapable of
appreciating a Brunch violin concerto. You don't have to
be a vegetarian to enjoy a side salad. Verstehen Sie?
Savez? Because you love someone physically and
emotionally with your entire being should not mean that
you can't have real feelings for another human being. To
agree with this proposition does not mean you have to
sleep around with any Tom, dick (sic), or Hairy! But to
disagree with it, at least as far as my logistics go,
borders on the blasphemously superstitious and the
criminally insensitive.
I must confess: I don't over-indulge in charitable works,
but when I give the odd coin or two to help relieve
hunger in some third world backwater, I certainly don't
lose sight of real poverty on my own doorstep. There are
those who firmly believe that charity should not only
begin there, it should remain there and never put a foot
outside the home! I disagree with this standpoint
entirely, but I take the disagreement well beyond the
boundary of alms-giving. If favours are sincerely given
and received, I see no reason whatsoever for not being
liberal with them.
I may have been only eleven when I invited Jefferson
Jackson Joe Louis to my tent on that last night of our
expedition to play some games, but I knew perfectly well
what I was doing. (I discovered that he preferred to be
called Jackson!) Lor's place in my life at that point was
unassailable, but he was not available. And when the big
black boy left in the morning after a night, which for me
at least was filled with a kind of unbridled passion, I
was still one hundred per cent intact and devoted to Lor.
Jefferson Jackson was invited to my tent because of what
I believed to be a burning need inside me, and I truly
believe that I would have been psychologically damaged
had nothing been done about it at that time. And if there
are people who fail to understand this sense of what Lor
calls geworfenheit in its full uncompromising intensity,
if not the mechanics or morality of it, then I can assure
these people that they have never felt a real need for
anything, nor a truly binding love for another person, a
love that can endure age and emergency, crisis and
calamity, even the odd extra-curricular or extra-marital
affair. And it could well be that the point is proved
beyond reasonable doubt if those who would criticise me
were to examine their motives and the light of their own
sad experiences.
I needed Jackson Louis that night. I needed the fire
within me to be subdued, one way or another, and I needed
to feel needed at the same time; and I discovered, as an
aside, that there was a lot more to a bondage freak-out,
so to speak, than having one's hands and feet tied. There
was one point in the proceedings when I was very nearly
prepared to have Jackson Louis fill my entire being, I
was so desperate in my search for satisfaction in all its
completeness that it was physically painful, and at that
point in my life I wanted to be hurt and I wished the
hurt to be extended to everyone I loved.
There was a deep contentment, nevertheless, in feeling
Jackson's enormous manhood against me as he held me
securely in his arms and promised to protect me from all
the ills of the world. I fully realised that his promises
were empty, albeit well-intended. I gave him what
satisfaction I could by hand and mouth and held him
between my thighs in simulated copulation. And in return
he similarly took me to the summit of sensual perfection.
And I have no regrets. Whether or not, at the tender age
of eleven, I was being unfaithful to Lor simply begs a
question that I was far too young and too innocent to
understand, never mind to answer the complexities of such
a problem!
When it was all over and I returned home, I loved Lor
Oldmann more than ever, and my determination to be a
worthy soul-mate to him was, if anything, more firmly
entrenched in my innermost id.
One of the last things Jefferson Jackson Joe Louis asked
me to do for him, when we all (bunch of hypocrites that
we were) exchanged addresses at the concluding ceremonies
of the expedition, was to send him a photograph of
myself. I promised and that was a determining factor in
what followed. I keep my promises! Ultimately if not
immediately!
It was nearly a year later. I had changed schools and was
living with Lor in Cambridge in a multi-apartment flat
that had been owned originally by grandfather Jaksen and
now jointly by Lor and his grandmother. It was nearing
the end of Lor's second year and the pressure of
examinations, lab reports and repeated demands for
scholarly theses was increasing by the hour, so a great
deal of our usual intimate activities had to be shelved.
Apart from anything else, I had to work hard to maintain
a place at this school - for every student inside there
were half a dozen outside waiting for a place. And then,
out of the blue, a visitor arrived, accompanied by an
official photographer, from the American Embassy in
London with some startling news. It seemed that I had
been awarded the topmost honour of the American Humane
Society for saving the life of Bret Stack.
"Christ!" I thought. "No-one has bothered to tell them
that the little bastard from Chicago was trying to rape
me at the time."
I thought it best to let that minor detail pass. I was
handed an invitation to appear at the Embassy to have a
medal presented by the ambassador and the president of
the humane society. The distinctly Japanese-looking
photographer took several photographs of me with my
mother, who had brought them to Cambridge from Middleton.
He also took shots of Lor and me together. And then the
pair left after coffee and biscuits and patronisingly
smarmy small talk. Mother also excused herself; she had a
show she had to catch up on, she said, in London. The
visitors had offered her a ride.
"You made quite an impact on that photographer," declared
Lor with his usual laconic analysis. "He kept eyeing you!
He wants to see more of you!" It was a statement of fact;
there was no innuendo or any hint of jealousy. "Otherwise
why the dozen photographs when one or two would have
sufficed?" I think Lor is rather proud when men admire
me. He held me close and kissed me passionately. "God
knows how many shots he would have taken had he seen you
in your sugar plum outfit!" He laughed. "Or the black cat
costume!"
One of the pictures appeared in The Times of London,
another in one of the country's upper class society
magazines, and one of these was copied by a couple of
American newspapers. Lor had one of them enlarged and
framed.
The day before we were due to appear at the embassy, we
returned to our country residences! There was a letter
from America waiting. It was a note, in an incredibly
childish script, from Jefferson Jackson Joe Louis telling
me that he had cut the photo from a New York tabloid, but
it was only a stopgap and not what he wanted because
millions of people would have looked at it and admired
it. He still wanted a photograph that was intended for
his eyes only. He also informed me that he had started
school again and was seriously learning to read and
write. I studied the handwriting again with a more
sympathetic eye. I had to admit it: I had a soft spot for
the big black boy, and had it not been for Lor - well who
knows what might have happened in that tent?
The same Japanese photographer was at the American
Embassy. He was absolute perfection of good manners. All
through the reception and the ceremony and at the dinner
afterwards, he always sought permission from everyone
present before he did any photography. He was
particularly careful always to include Lor or my mum when
he wanted to take a snap of me. He made a serious point
in flattering my mother and by the end of the evening the
two of them were like the proverbial Siamese twins.
"You are a natural subject," he said to me on the
solitary occasion when he found me alone. I was standing
on a veranda overlooking the embassy garden when he
joined me. "Would you mind if I mentioned your name to
some people in the fashion industry?" I told him I would
have no objections; already, remembering Lor's words, a
sly plan to provide Jackson with his own individual
photograph was germinating in my mind. "I think with your
looks and the prestige of the American Humane Society
award, you could name your own price!"
It was shortly after that, during the last week of term
at school before the long summer vacation, the
headmistress called me to her office, and not to make too
much of a meal of the interview, told me that neither she
nor the board of governors would have any objection to my
appearing as a model in a positively upper class,
hellishly expensive fashion catalogue. She produced a
letter she had received, which offered the school a lump
sum of five thousand American dollars for the privilege.
There was no mention of American dollars being pointed in
my direction.
"If anything comes of this, and there are other offers,"
stated the old woman with ice-cold logic, "stick out for
0.5% gross!" She puffed vapour through her nose and
virtual reality avarice dripped from her eyes. "You'd be
surprised at how much that can amount to!"
Lor seemed pleased when I retailed the story. "We'll wait
and see what happens," he commented, "but I agree; five
thousand dollars is bread crumbs for what you have on
offer!" And I really believe he meant every word of it!
"Or artificial pearls," he added as an afterthought,
"cast before greedy swine!" Why is it, I wonder, that the
people who readily detect greed in others are those, like
Lor it has to be said, who are more than adequately
stacked?
The fashion catalogue people appeared at the apartment in
Cambridge only days later and were introduced by the same
photographer who once again was decorum personified. I
was invited to a former film studio in London for a
preliminary sitting on the following Saturday. A private
limousine would pick me up and return me to my door. Lor
was also invited, and my mother, if possible, at the
request of the Japanese cameraman. Lor had an interview
at MIT for a place there after he had completed his
studies in England.
He had also been invited to participate in the world Li-
tchai championships being held in Boston. I knew how
important these things were for him, so I presented his
apologies in his absence. My mother and grandma Jaksen
were on holiday in the Bahamas. The photographer seemed
genuinely sad, but the other men could not have cared
less.
The chauffeur who came on the following Saturday to pick
me up could have come from a novel by P.G. Wodehouse, and
the studios were straight out of Star Wars. There seemed
to be hundreds of people milling around - young girls and
women who had forgotten to put outdoor clothes on, and
men who seemed more interested in the contents of their
lunch-boxes and the racing pages of their tabloids than
the abundance of female flesh seething around them. It
was tohu wabohu and a recipe for early retirement for
vulnerable males with a coronary! But out of this
intriguing chaos the same Japanese photographer and a
couple of older women emerged.
"Is there not a parent or guardian?" demanded the older
of the women. The question was directed aggressively at
the man. When I supplied the answer, she pouted. "You
know it is against the law to photograph minors except in
the presence of a parent or guardian." She snorted and
swung away.
"It is only a test piece, for Christ's sake!" the
photographer yelled above the encroaching babble of
voices.
The outcome was that I had to kick my heels in a
beautifully furnished, hermetically sealed and sanitised
waiting room. I was plied with soft drinks and had free
access to an automatic snack machine with chocolate
wafers and salted peanuts. The man apologised profusely
for the snag and disappeared after the two Amazons. Left
to myself, with piped romantic music filtering from a
concealed audio system, I studied the bookcases and the
display cabinets for a while, then turned my attention to
the magazines lying on the glass-topped tables. There
were the usual pretentious rubbish you find in any
dentist's waiting room as well as some glossy, high
society fashion magazines, trade catalogues and
children's comic books, which were all given short
shrift.
There were some periodicals which attracted more than a
passing glance. The language meant nothing other than I
recognised it as Japanese. The photographs were a
different kettle of fish! Not exactly pornographic, but
not the kind of thing Lor's mother would have approved of
either. Young girls in revealing clothes and suggestive
poses were bound with ropes, ribbons, tape and belts, and
in one case with pythons. In a few of the photographs,
scantily clad men, mostly black, appeared. I lingered
over these, trying to convince myself that it was idle
curiosity, but I knew myself better than that! I really
believed that I could stand fair comparison with any of
the females in the photographs. And my black friend,
Jefferson Jackson Joe Louis, was as handsome as any of
the men.
On another table, the same kind of material was on view,
but in this case it was in cartoon form with lurid
drawings in place of photographs. It was one of these
strip cartoon stories that really intrigued me. It was
obviously a continuous narrative with previous episodes
and the promise of more to come; the speech balloons and
commentary were in Japanese characters, but the story was
clear: a young, near-naked, preteen girl was being gagged
and bound by ropes as a prelude, one supposed, to being
raped, by a older black man IN A TENT! And the black man
could have been an older ringer for my Jefferson Jackson
Joe Louis! The pictures of the girl were stylised, but
those of the man were photographic. The blend of anima
and real was sexually disturbing.
I was so engrossed in this material that I had not
noticed the man re-enter the room. He stood behind me.
"That's manga!" he said. He laid a hand delicately on my
shoulder. "And Henai! It is extremely popular in Japan
and Korea." He hesitated. "I do some of the photography,
not normally as extreme as that!" He pointed at the paper
I was holding. The principal picture was of a gigantic
male shaft being introduced between the legs of a tiny
female form. "A colleague does the art work, some times
from my photographs, but mostly from live models." He was
silent again while I turned a few pages. "I don't suppose
you would be interested?" he murmured.
I did not reply immediately. I turned a few more pages.
"Perhaps," I said, "for one per cent gross!"
The Japanese photographer appeared deep in thought for
several seconds. He took my hand. "Sit down for a moment,
please," he said. "I think we should discuss this
seriously!" His eyes were already stripping me and making
a professional assessment. "You are an extremely
beautiful girl." He sat on a chair opposite me. He
reached over, brushed my skirt back and parted my knees
then leaned back and gazed his fill. "Yes!" he decided.
He rose. "We could make a lot of good use of you!" He
pulled me to my feet. "One per cent gross, you say?" He
seemed thoughtful again. "I think we could come to some
arrangement!"
"One per cent gross," I said coyly, "and a private
photograph of me."
He smiled wisely. "For your boyfriend? Lor isn't it?"
"For a boyfriend," I replied. "But not Lor!" I smiled as
sweetly as I could, but I felt the hot blood surging
through my arteries.
The photograph for Jackson Louis was taken at the flat at
Cambridge while the P.G. Wodehouse chauffeur waited
outside. The proceedings lasted for forty five minutes;
in one way it seemed to go on for hours and in another it
was over before anything got started.
Matsumoto Koji wanted to know the motives behind the
photograph. Was it simply to tease? To recall happy
memories? As a sentimental keepsake? He explained the
psychology of posing in plain, explicit language. "The
nude photograph is much less stimulating to the healthy
male than one requiring an exercise in imagination," he
declared passively. "The best photographs are not those
that reveal physical details, but those that betray real
emotions."
He suggested we make a careful selection of clothes I
should wear and I turned out my wardrobe for his
inspection, and my lingerie drawers. He quickly settled
on a simple, almost transparent top with four buttons
down the front, an extremely brief mini-skirt and a pair
of plain white cotton panties.
He set up his equipment while I changed. I made to go
into another room, but he suggested that he take some
snaps in various stages of undress with an Instamatic and
I make a selection. He watched carefully as I discarded
each piece; he was intently interested in my nakedness
and, to be honest, I lingered. When I dressed in the
recommended costume, he set me on my bed.
"This boyfriend," he said, and halted. "Do you want him
to be interested in the photograph? Sexually?"
"Yes!" I nodded. "Very much!"
"Can I suggest a mere glimpse of white between your legs?
Little more than that. One breast exposed? And full
legs!" He straightened one of my legs, bent the other at
the knee and brushed the skirt back. He undid the buttons
of the blouse to reveal my left breast. He stood back and
admired his work and me - which did me no end of good - I
was aflame inside. Then he asked, "How easily are you
aroused sexually?" When I pouted indecision and modesty,
he declared, "I could get you to broadcast sexual arousal
from the photograph. Is he the kind of boyfriend you
would want to do that for?"
I tried to laugh. My mouth was dry. I nodded and
murmured, "Yes, I think he is!"
He came close. "You are one of the most beautiful girls I
have ever photographed. Truly!" He tilted my face up and
kissed me lightly on the lips. He cupped my breast, the
exposed one, and kneaded it like a piece of glazier's
putty until the nipple stood out prominently. "Or
touched," he added quietly. His hand dropped to my vulva.
He rubbed. "Perfect!" he exclaimed and stood back.
He took half a dozen photographs in quick succession.
Then started to pack away his equipment. A feeling of
sadness swept over me. I did not want him to go.
"I'll send you all the prints tomorrow evening," he said.
He made for the door. "And the negatives!" He left. And
I felt empty. I wanted Lor. Or Jefferson Jackson Joe
Louis. Or Matsumoto Koji.
***
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life in
anyway shape or form.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 19