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Archive name: whose.txt (MF, inc, bro/sis)
Authors name: Parthenogenesis (parth_nogenesis@hotmail.com)
Story title : Whose Brother, Whose Sister?
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2003. Please
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Whose Brother, Whose Sister? (MF, inc, bro/sis)
by Parthenogenesis (parth_nogenesis@hotmail.com)
***
This story has no author. It was born of the
parthenogenesis of cyberspace. Please keep it that way.
***
After four months of beating the bricks, I finally got a
job offer. The start-up I'd been working for had
vaporized almost overnight, tossing me back into the job
market just before Thanksgiving, the worst time of year
to look for a job in Silicon Valley.
The whole valley essentially shuts down for the holiday
season, and in January, everybody's hassling budgets and
don't want to commit to new hires. Things don't return to
normal--whatever normal may be in the goofiest industry
on the face of the earth--until February.
Moreover, the market was tight right then, and, on top of
that, I have a pretty heavy-duty resume, so most of the
people who were hiring were looking for somebody who'd
work cheaper than I was willing to. When DigiHertz
decided they wanted me, they moved fast.
I got the offer after only a single interview, and had
only three days to wrap up my loose ends before I was to
report for work. I would have preferred to think things
over a bit, but my bank balance was on a rapid collision
course with disaster, and, I kept reminding myself, "This
is only a living, not a life." I took the job.
DigiHertz, incidentally, has nothing to do with cars.
They make digital microwave radios. If you have a digital
cellular phone, it's probably a DigiHertz radio that's
carrying your call to the phone company. If you see
little microwave dish antennas on the corner of a
building, there are probably DigiHertz radios behind
them, pumping data to a building on the other side of
town.
I had to go into the DigiHertz building to sign the offer
letter late on a Friday afternoon. When Sarah Nesbitt,
the woman from Human Relations who was handling my offer,
gave me the letter at the reception desk, she did kind of
a double take and stood off to one side, looking at me
closely.
As I was reading the letter, I glanced at her out the
corner of my eye from time to time, and every time I did,
it seemed to me that she was looking at me rather
strangely. I was both puzzled by her looks and wondering
whether maybe I was misinterpreting something or whether
maybe I'd missed a patch under my chin when shaving, but
the whole transaction took less than five minutes, and
after I was out of the building, I didn't give it any
more thought.
My introduction to DigiHertz, the following Monday, was
four hours of orientation that focused heavily on company
policies and procedures; in essence, 110 pages of
reminders of who was boss and what was and what was not
permitted, carefully worded in politically correct "you
can't blame me" phrasing. There was a heavy emphasis on
sexual harassment, which was not surprising.
About a year earlier, DigiHertz had been involved in an
ugly lawsuit involving sexual harassment. It had cost
them a million dollars in settlement and a whole lot of
bad press, and had rocked the company to its foundations.
One of the VP's had leaned a little too heavily on his
administrative assistant, assuming that there was a "yes"
down there somewhere beneath all her "no's."
The admin had filed a complaint with the HR department.
The director of the HR department, who was an old friend
of the VP, had treated the matter lightly, taking the
view that "well, that's just Harry." He'd spoken to
Harry, but Harry didn't get the message, so the admin got
a lawyer.
The upshot of it was, aside from the million dollars that
both Harry and the HR director were now working
elsewhere, the president managed to hang on by the skin
of his teeth, and the company was hyper about sexual
harassment.
In order to keep his butt covered, the president had
hired as the new director of HR "Battleship" Barbara
Corrigan, who was known throughout Silicon Valley for her
utter intolerance of anything that even hinted of sexual
harassment. One of her hallmarks was that, although she
was the director of the department, she never assigned
sexual harassment complaints out to any of her staff. She
handled them herself.
None of which bothered me much. I certainly didn't have
any intention of harassing anybody, sexually or
otherwise. I was there to work, to try to get back on my
financial feet after four months without income, and to
be able to relax and enjoy having a steady income again.
For the first week, I did nothing but read documentation
and experiment with the product I'd be working on. I
talked to only three people, Ben, my boss, Mike, the
fellow with whom I shared office space, and Suzi, the
departmental admin. I went home at night with my head
feeling like it was stuffed with oatmeal, ate dinner,
watched TV, checked a couple of newsgroups, and hit the
sack.
I got around the company only to the extent of going back
and forth to the men's room and the coffee pot. It just
so happened that, in those few and brief excursions,
Sarah's and my paths crossed fairly often. I'd give her a
nodded greeting, but nothing more, and it seemed to me,
once again, that she looked at me strangely and veered
away a little, almost going around me, making more space
between us when we passed than people usually do under
those circumstances.
Despite its tedium, my nose-to-the-grindstone approach
during that first week was worth the effort. DigiHertz's
equipment was not remarkably different from a lot of
other similar equipment I'd worked on.
Sure, they had a few twists and a whole bunch of local
lingo I was unfamiliar with, but those were minor details
I could pick up as I went along. On Friday, I told my
boss that I was ready to go to work seriously, and the
following Monday, I attended my first product team
meeting.
Tuesday morning, when I went to my desk, I found waiting
for me a voicemail message from Barbara Corrigan, asking-
-directing--me to report to her office immediately.
Barbara's imperious tone was a bit off-putting, but I
wasn't bothered. I assumed that there was some kind of HR
paperwork that had to be completed.
I'll swear that Battleship Barbara could have driven
nails with her face. She was about fifty-five. Her salt-
and-pepper hair was cut in a short, no-nonsense style,
her dress was businesslike and severe, and her rock-solid
jaw gave no indication that she ever smiled. Nor did she
beat around the bush. After a curt greeting, she said,
"Sarah Nesbitt has filed a complaint of sexual
harassment, visual harassment, against you. Do you know
what visual harassment is?"
My shock must have been visible. I'd scarcely even nodded
at Sarah Nesbitt. How on earth could she be accusing me
of sexual harassment?
"Yes, I know what visual harassment is," I said.
"And will you tell me, please?" Battleship Barbara asked.
"Visual harassment is when someone displays sexually
offensive material in his or her work area, or when
someone repeatedly looks at another person in a way that
makes him or her uncomfortable."
"That's right," Battleship Barbara said. "You are hereby
issued a verbal warning for this infraction. If there's a
second instance, you will receive a written warning. If
there's a third instance, you will be placed on
probation."
"Whoa! Wait a minute," I said. "I think you'd better say
that Sarah Nesbitt alleges visual harassment. I don't
have any idea what you're talking about. Sarah Nesbitt
handled my offer letter. I've never been near her or
spoken to her, except when I came in and signed the
offer."
"Sarah claims that, on numerous occasions, when you and
she passed in hallways, you leered at her," Battleship
Barbara said.
"Leered at her!" I exploded. "I nodded to her in passing,
just as I have with other DigiHertz employees, both male
and female. This doesn't make any sense at all."
Battleship Barbara fixed me with an icy stare. "Ms.
Nesbitt has filed her complaint. Unless you can produce
evidence to the contrary, I have to assume that her
complaint has merit."
Nice. Lovely. HR taking care of its own. I'd seen this
tactic in other places and under other conditions. Put
somebody instantly on the defensive, then watch them
squirm, especially when the accused person has to try to
prove a negative, which is damn hard to do. How could I
prove that I *hadn't* leered at Sarah Nesbitt?
Sexual harassment laws are written so that if a woman
claims to have been sexually harassed, the claim is
virtually as good as proof. I knew that the worst thing I
could do was to start to blather in protest, so I sat
quietly, trying to regain control of myself and gather my
thoughts.
In the process of doing my homework the preceding week, I
had read all 110 pages of company policy. I thought back
over the lengthy section on sexual harassment. Finally, I
spoke.
"Ms. Corrigan, I believe that, according to company
policy, and consistent with law, I have a right to
confront my accuser."
Battleship Barbara looked at me coldly, but she had to
comply. She lived by written policy, and she'd written
that one. She picked up her telephone, called Sarah
Nesbitt, and asked her to come to her office.
When Sarah walked into Battleship Barbara's office, her
chin was thrust forward, and she had a defiant stance. I
looked at her closely as she passed by me. She was
pretty, not model-pretty, but healthy, girl-next-door
pretty--somewhere beneath all her makeup.
I hadn't really noticed the makeup before, very dark
lipstick, and heavy eye shadow and eyebrow liner. She
didn't need all that makeup, and it seemed inconsistent,
made her look older than she probably was, late twenties,
I'd guess, a few years younger than I am.
She looked lithe, with a figure like a ballerina, almost
no chest, long, solid legs, and a muscular, round, high,
protruding butt, framed nicely in a pair of very tight
slacks. She took a seat at the other corner of Battleship
Barbara's desk, sitting on the edge of the chair, her
back rigidly straight.
"Sarah," Battleship Barbara said softly, "I've informed
Mr. Wilson of your complaint. He has cited, quite
correctly, company policy that permits him to confront
his accuser directly, and that's why I've asked you to
come in. I know this will be difficult for you, but it's
required by policy and by law. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand," Sarah said.
Battleship Barbara reached into a desk drawer and
withdrew a small tape recorder, which she placed on the
front of her desk.
"I'm going to ask your permission to tape this meeting,"
she said. "This tape will be as confidential as the
conversation, and will be locked in my file cabinet. It
will be used only in the event that future action may
make reconstruction of this conversation necessary. Do
you both agree to the taping?"
"Of course," Sarah said.
"Of course," I said.
"Now, then, Mr. Wilson, what would you like to know?"
"I've been accused of doing something I haven't done," I
said. "In order to be able to refute Ms. Nesbitt's
claims, I have to know the specifics of her charges,
details about what she believes I did."
"All right," Battleship Barbara said. "Sarah, would you
please tell us exactly what happened? It's okay. Take
your time."
"It's quite simple," Sarah began. "It happens that Mr.
Wilson and I have walked by each other a number of times
since he started at DigiHertz. Almost every time we
passed, he looked at me hard, strangely, running his eyes
up and down my body, focusing his attention on my groin
area and my chest. It made me feel like he was sizing me
up, undressing me with his eyes."
Battleship Barbara looked at me with her lips pursed, as
if to say, "See, I told you so." This was unbelievable. I
knew I hadn't stared at Sarah Nesbitt and sized her up.
If anything, it was she who had looked at me strangely,
though I hadn't felt like I was being sized up. I'd felt
like I was being looked at like a zoo animal in a cage.
"Then he touched me," Sarah said.
Battleship Barbara's jaw dropped. I whipped my head in
Sarah's direction so fast that my neck cracked loudly.
"It was very late at night," Sarah continued, "maybe two
or three in the morning. It was a very hot night, and I
was wearing a baby-doll nightgown with nothing else on.
I'd turned the covers back, and was lying on the sheet,
trying to get to sleep in the heat.
All of a sudden I saw him walking into my bedroom. He
thought I was asleep, but I wasn't. I was so scared, I
didn't know what to do, so I lay there quietly,
pretending to be asleep. I could see that he was wearing
only under shorts, and that his stiff thing was making
them stick out in front."
Sarah's eyes were closed. As she spoke, she began to rock
forward and back slightly. Her voice lost its adult
timbre, and started sounding more and more like the voice
of a young girl.
"He came over to the edge of my bed, and looked down at
me, holding his stiff thing in his hand and squeezing it.
He reached down and pulled the hem of my nightgown up
until my private parts were uncovered. He just stood
there for a long time, looking at me and squeezing his
stiff thing. Then he put his hand onto my private parts,
very lightly, as if he didn't want to wake me up. I still
didn't move. Then he started to rub my private parts. He
rubbed and he rubbed, squeezing his hard thing while he
was rubbing me."
Beads of perspiration appeared on Sarah's upper lip and
brow.
Battleship Barbara rendered me a menacing stare.
"Then he put his finger into my slit and started rubbing
on the inside, and took his hard thing out of his shorts
and started stroking up and down on it. While he rubbed
me inside my slit, he kept sliding his finger farther and
farther between my legs, pushing it just a little bit
into my vagina. I was getting all wet and slippery. He
kept rubbing his finger between my legs, getting his
finger wet and slippery too, and rubbing my button. Oh,
Davey! Daveeeeeey! What are you doing to me? It feels so
good and I'm so scared and you shouldn't be here but it
feels so good!"
Sarah's voice had become high and thin, completely like
that of a little girl, and she was rocking back and forth
harder and harder. She dropped her hand to her lap, and
started rubbing between her legs. I looked at Battleship
Barbara and saw that her eyebrows had gone to the middle
of her forehead, and well they should have. As if Sarah's
rocking back and forth and putting her hand between her
legs wasn't enough: my first name is Mark.
"I knew this was wrong and I knew I should scream, but I
couldn't. He kept rubbing and rubbing between my legs.
His finger was so slippery that it just went back and
forth and back and forth so easily. He started stroking
his stiff thing with the same rhythm he was rubbing me.
While he was rubbing, I felt my body getting all tingly.
I'd never felt like that before and it felt so good even
though it was so wrong and I was so scared, and then, all
of a sudden, my body did something funny and it felt all
kind of like fireworks inside. Davey. Daveeeeey. Oh,
Davey. Oh! Oh! Oh! Oooooooooooh!"
At the same time Sarah made her final long "Oooooooooh,"
her rocking stopped and her body became completely rigid.
She'd given herself an orgasm, right there in Battleship
Barbara's office.
"And then stuff spurted out the end of his stiff thing
and landed on my stomach and my hip. It was warm and
gooey and it felt good in a funny kind of way when it hit
my skin. Then, after he rubbed me between my legs a few
more times and squeezed his thing a little bit more, he
took his hand away. He took some tissues from a box
beside my bed, mopped up his gooey stuff, pulled my
nightgown back down, and left."
Sarah stopped rocking and sat silent. As softly and as
evenly as I could, I said, "Sarah, how old are you?"
"Eleven," she said, in the high, girlish voice.
Battleship Barbara and I looked at each other. The steel
in her gaze had been replaced by a look of concern. She
came around her desk and put her hands on Sarah's
shoulders and shook her gently. "Okay, Sarah," she said.
"It's okay, sweetheart. That's enough. You can stop now."
Sarah remained motionless. Battleship Barbara shook her a
bit harder.
"Sarah? Sarah? Can you hear me?"
Sarah's head gave a quick jerk, and her eyes popped open.
She gazed around the room with a look of disorientation
and concern on her face.
Battleship Barbara turned her attention to me.
"Mr. Wilson, I believe you can go now. I'll be in touch
with you later. And surely I don't have to remind you
that everything that took place in this office is in
strictest confidence?"
"Of course not, Ms. Corrigan. Thank you."
I stood and prepared to leave.
"By the way, Sarah, who's Davey?" Battleship Barbara
said.
"Davey? Davey? I don't know any ... oh, Davey. 'Davey' is
what I used to call my brother. He died in an automobile
accident ten year ago, when he was nineteen. He was three
years older than me. When am I going to get to tell my
story?"
Battleship Barbara and I exchanged a quick glance. She
pulled the chair I'd been sitting over next to Sarah's,
and, as she sat down and put her arm around Sarah's
shoulders, I left.
Obviously, Sarah had some kind of problem, and I felt
kind of sorry for her. But it just as obviously didn't
have anything to do with me, and I was confident that
Battleship Barbara would be off my case.
But there was one other thing wrong. Sarah's story had
given me a raging hard-on. What Sarah had described--
apparently, an incident between her and her brother that
had taken place what? Sixteen years ago -- was virtually
identical to an incident that had taken place between my
sister and me.
I hadn't thought about that in years. One hot summer
night, when I was fifteen and my sister was twelve, I had
been overcome by horniness and curiosity and had gone
into my sister's bedroom. I'd never seen a naked girl
before, and I thought that, with the hot night, I might
be able to catch a glimpse of my sister's bare skin.
Light from a full moon was shining directly on my
sister's bed, illuminating her almost as brightly as if
it had been day.
Her covers were thrown back, and she was lying on the
sheet, wearing a baby-doll nightgown. The nightgown was
covering her crotch, so I couldn't tell when I first
walked in whether she was wearing panties or not. But I
could see all of her legs, as she lay there asleep,
completely relaxed and natural; innocent. And she looked
so beautiful.
I didn't know what to do next. I didn't have any plan to
do anything, so I just stood by her bed, looking at her,
getting harder and harder, squeezing my hard-on through
my Jockey shorts. After a while, I just had to see
whether she was wearing panties, so, very gently and
slowly, I eased the hem of her nightgown up, and almost
spurted on the spot when I saw her naked pussy.
My heart was beating so loudly I couldn't hear anything
else. I felt dizzy and my ears were ringing. She had a
little patch of fur up at the top of her slit, but her
pussy lips themselves were bare. Like the rest of her,
her pussy was so beautiful that I couldn't take my eyes
off of it. I looked and looked, all the while squeezing
my hard-on through my shorts.
Finally, I just had to touch it. And I did, just barely.
When my sister didn't move, I touched her again, then a
little more firmly, and then I started rubbing her pussy
lips, as gently as I could. After I'd rubbed her pussy
lips for a while and she still didn't stir, I pressed my
finger into her slit, and began to rub up and down. And
my sister had got wet and slippery, too.
By that time, I was so crazy with horniness, love for my
sister, and lust that I took my cock out of my shorts and
started jacking off with the same rhythm I was rubbing
her. And then I came, like I'd never come before,
spurting my semen all over my sister's stomach and pussy
and legs.
When I realized what I'd done, I was scared to death that
my sister would wake up and tell Mom and Dad, and I was
full of guilt for masturbating myself while I masturbated
her. I mopped up my come and got out of my sister's
bedroom, as fast as I could. I was scared that my sister
would say something for days afterward, and guilty for as
long as I was scared.
Apparently, my sister never said anything, and my guilt
and fear dwindled. Then I must have pushed the incident
into a far, far corner of my mind. It had never occurred
to me, until Sarah told her story, that my sister might
have been awake during the whole thing.
I never went into my sister's room in the middle of the
night again, and the two of us never did any other sexual
experimenting. But I think that single instance left me
with a predilection for women with girlish figures, not
big-breasted, wide-hipped women, but lithe women, women
built like ballerinas, women with small breasts and long
legs, and high, rounded bottoms, women built like...
Sarah?
I dismissed that thought from my mind. Sarah had the
right kind of figure, to be sure, but she wore way too
much makeup, and she had problems, besides. Even if I had
felt some attraction to Sarah, I would have had to be
stone dumb to do anything about it.
When I walked out of Battleship Barbara's office, the
chatter on the HR floor stopped as quickly as if someone
had sliced a knife through it. The corporate jungle fell
silent as the tiger passed by.
I walked though the corridors, climbed the stairs to the
second floor, and threaded my way through the maze of
cubicles. As I passed by the secretarial area near my
office, the women quit chatting and typing and fussing
with their hair and fixed their eyes on me as I passed
by.
I was sure that what had happened in Battleship Barbara's
office was still in her office, but some kind of word had
spread. Apparently even the taint of accusation was as
good as an admission of guilt. I had trespassed against
womankind. It's too bad upper management couldn't learn
to make effective use of the corporate tom-tom, surely
one of the most efficient means of communication ever
devised.
I returned to work and tried to put the Sarah business
out of my mind. Two days later, I got a memo from
Battleship Barbara, officially clearing me of any and all
charges. Sarah had withdrawn her complaint. But even
being officially cleared by Battleship Barbara didn't
satisfy the natives.
The women were nervous and avoided me. The men kept their
distance, too, civil when we had to do business, but not
willing to shoot the bull. God only knows what they might
have had on their minds as far as the women in the
building were concerned, but they must have feared guilt
by association. When I walked by a group of people
talking, conversation ceased.
If I approached a group of people as if I were going to
join them or needed to talk to somebody, they dispersed,
leaving behind one poor soul whose unfortunate chore it
was actually to speak to me. I was uncomfortable, no
doubt about it, but I knew that I wasn't guilty of
anything, and decided that I was just going to have to
keep my head up and let time run its course until people
forgot, or something more juicy came along.
Then, two weeks and one day following the meeting in
Battleship Barbara's office, just as I was beginning to
feel an easing in the tension around me and permit myself
the hope that my life at DigiHertz might assume a more
normal routine, I got an email letter from Sarah.
Dear Mr. Wilson,
Please accept my apology for causing you trouble
and discomfort. I know now that you in no way
sexually harassed me, and I'm deeply sorry that
I accused you wrongly.
I would very much like to talk to you. Could we
meet for lunch one day soon?
Sincerely,
Sarah Nesbitt
I was utterly dumbfounded. Certainly I appreciated
Sarah's apologizing, and I could understand how that
might have been difficult for her, and something she felt
was necessary. But I couldn't see any reason to meet with
her, and I didn't want to do anything that might
jeopardize the relationship I was trying to build with
DigiHertz and my co-workers. It didn't take long for me
to compose my reply.
Dear Ms. Nesbitt,
I accept your apology.
However, considering the circumstances that
led to your apology, I think it would be unwise
for us to meet.
Yours truly,
Mark Wilson
I then put Sarah Nesbitt as much out of mind as I could.
I was really getting into my new job. I'd found that
DigiHertz had a way of looking at all its products and
projects with a strange kind of single-mindedness, that
they seemed to consider each product line in complete
isolation from any other, and that there were huge areas
of confusion and overlap.
I'd put together a package describing how they could
eliminate two major areas of redundancy, speed up their
time to market, and save a good deal of money in the
process, and I needed to start the politicking I'd have
to do to make my point. I was working hard, and I was, in
my own slightly less than humble opinion, earning my
keep.
Three days later, I got a second email letter from Sarah
Nesbitt.
Dear Mr. Wilson,
I can appreciate your reluctance to meet with
me, but I feel like I *have* to talk to you.
This is *very* important to me.
If we can't meet for lunch, could we get
together for perhaps an hour at any other time
that would be convenient for you? Please?
Sincerely,
Sarah Nesbitt
Probably there isn't a man alive who doesn't respond at
some level to a "damsel in distress" message, no matter
how much he may know consciously that her distress has
nothing to do with him, and I was no exception.
Consciously, I still thought it was a bad idea to meet
with Sarah. But it was *very* important to her, and she
felt like she *had* to talk to me.
My ego and my curiosity were piqued. And I felt kind of
lousy. It seemed clear that she had some kind of problem,
and I'd be a rat if I didn't help her try to solve it. My
guts were saying "yes" at the same time my head was
saying "no." One lesson I had learned in life, the hard
way, was that when I let my head overrule a strong gut
feeling, I was almost surely making a mistake.
Men can have intuition, too, no matter how hard American
society tries to drub it out of them. I wrote back to
Sarah, and we arranged to meet the following day at a
little Mexican restaurant out on the north side of
Milpitas, far enough away from DigiHertz that it seemed
unlikely we might encounter anyone from work there.
Our meeting was, of course, strained at the start. The
last time we'd actually spoken to one another was in
Battleship Barbara's office, after Sarah had accused me
of sexually harassing her, and she'd told her trance-like
story. But we made it through terse hellos and ordering a
meal.
I was uncomfortable with the silence, but it was Sarah's
show. I was here because she'd asked me to me here, and I
didn't know what she had on her agenda. I sat and waited.
Sarah smoothed her hair, brushed invisible lint off her
blouse, inspected her fingernails, and rearranged the
silverware. When the salads came, she finally spoke.
"This is even harder than I thought it would be," she
said. "I'm so embarrassed."
Be gentle, be helpful, a voice inside my head cautioned.
"It's okay," I said. "Please try not to feel
embarrassed."
"Well, I, I mean, after all, in Barbara's office, I,
well, I masturbated, and I had an orgasm, right in front
of my boss and a man I don't know. Oh, this is terrible,
I don't even know where to start."
"Like they always say in the movies, why don't you start
at the beginning?"
"Mostly because I don't know where the beginning is. I
mean, I'm not sure any more what's real and what's not."
"If you can't start someplace, then start any place, and
let's see where it goes from there."
Sarah looked off in the distance, crunching a piece of
romaine as she thought.
"Okay. I'll start with what happened after you left
Barbara's office. She played the tape of what I'd said. I
heard what I said, I heard myself come, and I heard me
say that I was eleven when you asked me how old I was.
I didn't remember saying any of those things, but I
understood that I had said them, that I'd gone into some
kind of a trance. Barbara talked to me for a while and
helped me get my bearings straight, then she suggested
that I call the company's AEP number and get some
counseling. So I did.
"I've seen the psychologist three times now. I took the
tape and played it for her, too. We've talked, and the
psychologist says that either one of two things happened.
Either Davey did come into my room late one night and
fondle me, or that's a fantasy I've been carrying for so
long, unable to resolve because of Davey's death, that I
truly don't know whether it happened or not."
"Can I ask a question?" I asked. "I'm confused and
curious about one thing."
"Sure."
"I really don't think I was giving you any particular
kinds of looks when we walked by each other at work. Why
did you file your complaint of visual harassment in the
first place?"
Sarah sighed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Wilson, but I don't have a
good answer for that, either. To me, it *felt* like you
were staring at me, undressing me with your eyes. I think
I would have felt the same way even if you were staring
off into space as we passed. I don't know why I felt that
way, but I do understand that it came from inside of me,
not in response to anything you did."
"How about if you call me Mark?"
"Okay. And, of course, you should call me Sarah. The
psychologist told me that it's very common for an
incidence of childhood molestation to take on a dream-
like quality, that kids try real hard to make it all go
away.
After a while, they're not sure whether it actually
happened or not, but it's not uncommon for some small
thing--the shadow of an arm crossing your face or a quick
glimpse of a profile--to reawaken the memory. I think
what happened was that when I first saw you, when you
came to sign your offer letter, some little glimpse of
you triggered the memory."
"Do I look like David?"
"Not at all."
Sarah started fishing in her purse. The waiter came and
took away our salad plates and brought the main course,
the usual chiles rellenos for me, and cheese enchiladas
for Sarah. As the waiter left, Sarah handed me a
photograph.
"This is a picture of Davey when he was sixteen. After
all this business started, I went to an old photograph
album to see if there might be any similarity between you
and Davey. I haven't found it yet."
I looked at the picture. Sarah was right. If there was
any similarity between Davey and me, I couldn't see it
either. In the picture, Davey was sixteen-gawky, on the
skinny side, sharp features, and dark-haired, like Sarah.
My hair is sandy blond, and I have a big frame, wide
shoulders. I gave the snapshot back to Sarah.
Sarah and I sat in silence for a few minutes, stirring
around the steaming food on our plates, lifting bites to
cool a bit before we moved them to our mouths.
Conversation between us, now that we'd got started, was
becoming easier. But I still didn't know why Sarah had
wanted to talk to me. Maybe she just needed to get Davey
and me separate in her mind.
"Probably you're wondering why I wanted to talk to you,"
Sarah said, hissing breath around a dollop of scalding
cheese. "This is the hard part. The really embarrassing
part. The part I've *got* to do."
"Take your time," I urged. "It's okay."
"That's the problem. I *can't* take my time. I'm afraid
that if I don't go through with this now, I never will.
It's most definitely *not* okay. Mark, I'm desperate,
that's all there is to it. I'm twenty-seven years old. I
want to have a real life, to fall in love with a man, to
get married, have some kids."
Sarah paused for a few pensive bites of enchilada, then
resumed speaking, more with determination than with ease.
"This whole ... business ... has brought a bunch of stuff
to a head, and I feel like I'm standing at a turning
point. Either I can confront it and try to overcome it,
or I can avoid it and accept its interfering with my life
for the rest of my life. I'm scared to death that I may
never have another opportunity to deal with this again,
that if I don't act now, I'll lose the chance forever."
Sarah closed her eyes, clenched her jaws for a moment,
then continued.
"I've never been able to have a real relationship with a
man. I become attracted to someone, feel like I'm falling
love, and want with all my heart to be close to him. But
when I try to be intimate, something goes haywire. I know
there's nothing physically wrong with me. I can
masturbate myself to orgasm, but when I'm with a man, I
just go numb, shut off. I lie there and feel him moving
in and out of me, but nothing happens in my body. I can't
let go, wrap around him, move, scream, come until I think
I won't be able to draw another breath. No matter hard I
try, nothing happens. I get disappointed, the man thinks
there's something wrong with him, and the whole thing
falls apart."
"Isn't confronting it what you're doing with the
psychologist?"
"Yes and no. Certainly if I hadn't seen her, I wouldn't
be able to be talking to you now. But psychotherapy takes
a long time, lots of talk. After thinking it over for a
couple of weeks, I've decided that I want to meet the
problem head-on, to try to shock myself out of whatever
it is and see if I can decide what's real and what isn't,
and get on with my life."
I felt like I should make some sounds of acknowledgment
or say something. But I couldn't find any words that
seemed appropriate. I looked at Sarah with what I hoped
was an encouraging expression.
"Here's why I wanted to talk to you," she said. "I want
you to help me confront the problem."
My eyebrows went up. I couldn't think of a way in the
world that I could help her wrestle with her own demon.
Sarah reached into her purse, then placed two items on
the table between us.
"Here's the tape from Barbara's office," she said, "and a
key to my apartment. What I want you to do is listen to
the tape. Then, some time during the next week--I don't
want to know exactly when you're going to do it--I want
you to come to my apartment in the middle of the night
and do to me *exactly* what I described on the tape.
After you've done that, if I haven't woken up, I want you
to wake me. I need to know what happened to me, and that
you're not Davey."
I almost blew a mouthful of arroz across the table.
"Are you kidding?" I exploded. "I don't know anything
about psychology, but that sure seems to me like it could
backfire completely. I could scare the absolute shit out
of you, or you could freak out entirely. Uh-uh. No. No
way. I don't like it. Better you should stick with your
psychotherapist, or maybe find someone else who'd be
willing to help you. Did you tell your shrink you were
going to do this? I can't believe she'd go along with
it."
Sarah's face fell. She looked directly into my eyes. As
she did, her eyes began to pool and glisten, and tears
ran down both her cheeks, leaving stains in her heavy
makeup.
"I was afraid you'd react that way. I guess I really
can't blame you. It's an awful lot to ask of someone who
is, after all, a complete stranger. I'm sorry. But it was
you who triggered the response in me. I don't think
there's anyone else who could help. And no, I didn't say
anything to my therapist about it. This was my decision
alone. I told you I was desperate, Mark. So desperate,
I'm willing to bet the farm. I accept full responsibility
for what I want to do. If I freaked, I wouldn't hold you
responsible."
"When it comes right down to it, you don't know anything
about me. I could be some horrible guy who'd take real
advantage of you in the middle of the night or use your
key to get in some other time and steal everything you
own."
"I thought about that, too," Sarah said, with a weak
smile. "What I know about you is that you could have come
completely unglued when I accused you of sexual
harassment. You didn't. I heard your voice on the tape
when you asked me how old I was. You figured out quickly
that something was wrong, and were gentle, not vindictive
or mean."
"After I withdrew my complaint, you could have counter-
complained about false charges. You didn't. You could
have refused completely to meet with me. You didn't. And,
after meeting me today, you could have told me I was nuts
and just to buzz off. You didn't. You listened. Besides
that, you look like a nice guy. I'm comfortable with you.
"I'm really not terribly concerned about the nature of
your character."
My mind took off in two directions. The part I wanted to
listen to kept telling me, this isn't your problem, this
isn't your problem, this isn't your problem. It's a bad
idea. You could get yourself into a heap of trouble. It
could turn out badly. You have no business even thinking
about creeping into a woman's apartment in the middle of
the night and fondling her in her sleep.
It's crazy, is what it is. The part I didn't want to
listen to was the mucho macho, white horse, knight in
shining armor, pure ego part. You could help the damsel
in distress, it said to me. Only you, nobody else. You
could save the day and be a hero. The debate between my
ears raged for several minutes.
"You *sure* you want to do this?" I asked.
"Very sure," Sarah said.
With a bit of effort, I got out of my own ego and fear
and tried to consider the situation from Sarah's point of
view. What a courageous woman, I said to myself. There's
an incredible strength of character and self in there.
She knows she's bogged down, and she wants to be able to
live a normal life so badly that she's willing to take
extreme measures to get what she wants.
I understood, finally, that if I could get out of myself
enough, I had the opportunity to give something to
somebody else, to help her with no thought of gain for
myself. I suddenly felt very selfish.
"Okay," I said, picking up the tape and the key and
putting them in my pocket. "I'll do it." Sarah wrote her
address on the back of a business card and handed it to
me. I put it in my pocket along with the tape and key.
"Thank you," she whispered, and began to cry in earnest,
not loudly, but visibly. The people around us in the
restaurant looked at us with veiled eyes, obviously
uncomfortable.
Sarah sniffed, fished a kleenex from her purse, and blew
her nose with a satisfying gurgle. "I think I'm making a
scene," she said, "and I must look awful." Her eye makeup
was smeared and her cheeks were streaked. "We'd better
get out of here."
Sarah went straight out to her car while I settled the
check. When I went outside, I looked around until I saw
her, using her rear-view mirror to touch up her makeup. I
put a hand on top of her car and leaned down to look at
her through the open window.
"Seems like we ought to say something more," I said,
"wrap this up somehow."
"It's wrapped," she said. "I don't want to say anything
more right now. Any more talk might ruin the plan. I'll
see you when I see you. And thanks again."
At that point, clearly, there was nothing more I could
say. Slightly bemused, I walked to my car, sat for a
moment to catch my emotional breath, then returned to
work.
That night, I listened to the tape. I almost relived the
scene in Battleship Barbara's office, recalling again the
similarity between what Sarah had described and what I'd
one with my sister all those years ago. And I got a
bursting hard-on again. I went into my bedroom, lay down,
and jacked off, coming with a ferocity that surprised me.
Then I tried to decide when would be a good time to go to
Sarah's apartment.
If I did it immediately, I thought, it wouldn't be much
of a surprise, and she might not be sleeping, lying awake
waiting for me to show up. If I waited too long, the plan
might lose steam of its own accord--Sarah would think I
changed my mind, chickened out. Four days finally settled
out as the right time. Not too soon; less than a week.
And four days would be a Saturday night, probably a
better time for extracurricular activity than during the
workweek.
When I returned to work in the morning, I had a terrible
time concentrating. I kept replaying Sarah's and my
lunchtime conversation in my mind, each time being
slightly astonished that I'd agreed to go along with such
a bizarre scheme.
I was thinking about Sarah.... and my sister, and what
this all might mean in some larger context, the
metaphysics of it, coincidences, how people get thrown
together and the strange things that happen sometimes.
But I kept plugging away, trying to keep my mind on
business and ignore the still-fractured social dynamic
around me. When Sarah and I crossed paths in the hall, we
both averted our gazes, each of us pretending that the
other one wasn't there.
All day Saturday, I was nervous as a cat. My stomach was
wiggly, my appetite was zip, and it seemed like I
couldn't sit still. When pacing around my apartment
didn't help, I went outside and walked for miles. During
the evening, I listened to the tape again to be sure that
I had my role down right -- and had the same reaction I'd
had the first time I listened to it.
I got such a raging hard-on I could hardly concentrate. I
lay down on my bed and jacked off. Better, I thought, not
to be carrying such a load of sexual heat anyway. I was
going to Sarah's house to help her, not to get my
jollies, and I thought I might be in better control if I
wasn't thinking one hundred percent with my cock. At
1:45, I slipped my little Maglite into my pocket and left
to drive to Sarah's apartment.
I tiptoed up the stairs to Sarah's apartment. I double-
checked the apartment number she'd written down against
the one on the door. My first fear was that I'd try to
get into the wrong apartment, somebody would call the
police, and I'd spend a night in jail trying to explain
why I was trying to get into the wrong apartment. I eased
the key into the lock and turned it with all the speed of
a clock hand. The lock made a soft click, and the knob
turned.
Slowly, I pushed the door open just enough to enter, then
eased the door shut, turning the knob as it closed so
that the shaft wouldn't snap into place. Then I stood
with my back to the door, listening to the thumping of my
heart and trying to control my breathing.
My second fear was that Sarah might wake up when she
heard me enter, forget about our arrangement or change
her mind on the spot, and scream bloody murder--and
somebody would call the police and I'd spend a night in
jail trying to explain why I'd walked into the apartment
of a young woman at 2:00 in the morning. But there was
dead silence. All I could hear was my own heart and
breath.
I turned on the Maglite to be sure that I didn't bump
into any furniture or trip on something on the floor. I
narrowed its beam to a pencil's width on the floor in
front of me, then softly walked toward a hall that must
lead to the bedroom. When I entered the hallway, I could
see a soft glow coming from the bedroom, so I turned the
flashlight off.
Peering into the bedroom, I saw that the glow was coming
from two votive candles burning in shallow glass bowls
atop the bureau. Then, with the script I was to follow in
mind, I returned to the living room and removed all my
clothes, except my under shorts. Then I returned to the
bedroom.
Sarah had followed her part in the script, too. The
covers were turned back, and she was lying on top of the
sheets, wearing a very short nightgown, so short that it
barely covered her pubic area. I walked over to the edge
of the bed and looked down at Sarah, and, as my cock
started to rise, I began to squeeze it. After gazing at
Sarah for a few minutes, I reached down and pulled up the
hem of her nightgown until her private parts were
uncovered--and my cock sprang instantly to full hardness.
Sarah's bush was a grown-up version of my sister's
pubescent one, a larger tuft of hair at the top of her
slit, with no hair at all on her pussy lips. I pulled my
gaze away from Sarah's crotch and let it run slowly from
her toes to her forehead. Her legs were long and shapely,
and, while she was lying on her back, her breasts were
almost invisible beneath her nightgown.
She'd washed off all her makeup before she went to bed.
Between the soft light from the candles and her lack of
makeup, she looked like she was about fourteen. She was
so beautiful, so innocent-looking that my heart began to
ache with her loveliness. All the maleness in me made me
want to wrap my arms around her and protect her from
anything that might threaten to harm her. There was no
way I could ever do anything mean to this woman.
At the same time I was looking at Sarah and trying to
reconcile my emotional reaction to the sight of her lying
there on her bed, practically naked and completely
defenseless, I was staggered by the sudden appearance in
my mind of images of my sister in her bed fifteen years
ago.
The images were stunning in their clarity and detail,
overlaid on the real Sarah in front of me, just like
clips in a movie. Reality wavered around me, and I began
to wonder who was trying to deal with whose demons here.
I shook my head and snapped myself fully back to Sarah's
bedroom. Looking at her and squeezing my hard-on was not
a difficult task.
With considerable difficulty, I put my own feelings aside
and shifted my mind to the script I'd agreed to enact. I
put my left hand on her pussy, very lightly, and began to
rub. I rubbed and rubbed, squeezing my cock while I
rubbed her. Sarah lay motionless, her breathing even,
apparently sound asleep.
Then I pressed my middle finger into her slit, as slowly
and easily as I could, at the same time pulling the
waistband of my Jockey shorts down and letting my raging
hard-on spring free. I grabbed my cock firmly, and began
to stroke it slowly. As I rubbed inside Sarah's slit, I
began to dip my finger lower and lower, letting it run
across the entrance to her pussy, pressing gently on her
pussy with each pass.
Sure enough, before long, her pussy started to get wet
and slippery. When my finger was thoroughly slick with
Sarah's pussy juice, I moved it to the top of her slit
and found her clitoris, which was erect and protruding
from its hood. Sarah's hips began to rock slightly, and
her breath rate increased.
By now, I was beginning to think seriously about coming.
Just like the script said, I started rubbing Sarah's
pussy and clitoris and jacking off with the same rhythm,
but I didn't need a script. This motion was completely
natural. Unavoidable. There was nothing else I could do.
Images of my sister's twelve-year-old body flickered and
flashed across my vision.
Sarah's hips pumped harder, and her breath became ragged.
Then, all at once, her body went rigid and I came as if a
gun had been fired inside of me. I didn't just spurt, I
shot, and the first blast of my semen landed on her
stomach with an audible splat. I rubbed Sarah's pussy and
clit as my balls drained dry, and I mean drained dry.
"Davey," Sarah moaned. "Daveeeeey. Oh, Davey. Oh. Oh. Oh.
Oooooooh!"
I pumped myself so dry I had an ache between my legs, and
my knees were shaking so violently I feared that I might
collapse. When I finally finished coming, I stroked Sarah
a few more times and squeezed the final few drops of come
out of my prick. I took some tissues from a box on the
nightstand beside the bed and mopped up both Sarah and
myself, then pulled her nightgown back down.
Then I sat down on the edge of the bed and put my hands
on Sarah's shoulders, shaking her gently. "Sarah?" I
whispered. "Sarah! Are you all right?"
Sarah's eyes snapped open wide in alarm. She sat up and
snapped her knees to her chest, knocking my hands off her
shoulders and almost clipping my chin. She threw one arm
across her face, her hand turned palm out, in the classic
defense reaction. "Davey!" she shouted.
"What are you do--"
"No, Sarah," I said softly. "Not Davey, Mark. Remember?"
Sarah's eyes flicked right and left in confusion and
fright. Then she blinked and gulped and gasped sharply.
"Oh! Mark! Oh! Oh. Yes, I remember, now."
"Do you remember my coming into your room and rubbing
you?" I asked.
"No, I don't remember anything. I must have been sound
asleep." Sarah sniffed the air. "But I came, didn't I.
And so did you. I can smell it, both of us, and it feels
like I just came."
I sniffed, too. The air was rich with the smell of
Sarah's heat and my semen. I wanted to go back and start
rubbing her again, and now I wanted to taste her too, to
bury my face in the wonderful aroma of her sexual
excitement.
"Yes, you did. And you called out Davey's name while you
were coming."
Sarah looked disappointed. "I guess I shouldn't be
surprised," she said. "I suppose it's human nature to
look for a quick fix. I want a quick fix."
As we talked, Sarah relaxed. She lowered her knees and
dropped her hand from her face and slumped forward.
"I guess I should be going," I said. "Are you going to be
okay?"
"I think so," she said. "I was scared to death when I
first woke up, but I'm okay now. Thanks for trying."
I reached out and hugged her. She returned the hug
without much enthusiasm. "You're welcome," I said. "The
pleasure was at least partly mine."
Sarah's mouth twisted into a wry smile.
"Well, good night," I said.
"Good night," Sarah responded.
I left her sitting like that on her bed, slumped forward,
looking disappointed. I dressed quickly and returned
home, again feeling out of joint, as if we should have
said more, reached some kind of closure or conclusion to
the failed experiment. But we hadn't, and it didn't seem
right to go back into Sarah's bedroom.
When I got back home, I went straight to bed--and lay
awake for several hours, excited by what I'd seen and
done with Sarah, sharing something of her disappointment.
I tried hard not to remember the visions of my sister,
but they wouldn't leave me.
This was Sarah's business, not mine. It was she who
needing fixing, not me. As much as I didn't want to look
at it, I had to admit to myself that something was going
on with me. My hero complex was suffering, too. I hadn't
rescued the damsel in distress, fixed everything and made
it all right. Finally, I drifted off into a shallow
sleep.
Sunday, I rattled around like one pea in a very empty
pod. I was unsettled, unhappy. I wanted to call Sarah, to
see her, to talk to her. I still felt like there was more
I could do, something that would be helpful to her,
something that would make her smile. But my part in the
script called only for my visiting her in the middle of
the night.
It was still her show, and I couldn't intrude and try to
force my feelings or beliefs into her life. I did my best
to ignore what I was feeling and consider that I'd done
all I could under the circumstances.
Monday, when I got to work, there was an email message
from Sarah waiting for me. I opened it with a mixture of
joy and fear.
Do it again. was all the message said. Those three words
were enough to make my heart leap. Yes! Sarah wasn't
going to give up--and I'd have the opportunity to see her
and touch her and feel her again. I sent her back an even
shorter message: Okay.
Sarah's request both made and ruined my day. I was all
but quivering like a puppy with anticipation at being
close to her again, and that excitement ruined my ability
to concentrate on my work. And I had to figure out when
to "surprise" her again.
This time, I decided to go immediately, that same night.
The reason I told myself was that she wouldn't be
expecting me so soon. The reason I didn't admit to myself
was that I just wanted to be with her again as soon as I
could. I made it through the day with maybe 51% of my
mind on what I was supposed to be doing for DigiHertz.
At home, I ate a light supper that I barely tasted, then
fidgeted and twitched. I turned on the television and
looked at it, without the foggiest idea what I was
watching. I read the same six pages of a book three times
before giving that up. I went out and walked around the
neighborhood for an hour.
I took a shower. Finally, inexorably, no matter how
slowly, the appointed hour arrived, and at 2:00 a.m., I
let myself into Sarah's apartment.
I took a quick Maglite check of the floor to be sure
there wasn't anything to trip over, then skinned out of
my clothes, except, of course, for my Jockey shorts.
Sarah had again left votive candles burning on top of the
dresser. In the soft glow, without makeup and looking
completely innocent and vulnerable, she seemed even more
beautiful than she had on Saturday.
Tonight, she was lying on her side, with her marvelous,
long legs slightly scissored, the luscious curve of her
bottom exposed where her nightgown had ridden up
slightly. As if anything could have prevented it, my cock
started to rise, according to the script. I gave my cock
a couple of squeezes as I stood there, looking at her and
feeling my heart begin to ache with her loveliness.
I wasn't too sure how to get her onto her back so I could
move to the next part of the action. I didn't want just
to push her for fear that I'd wake her, so I began to
stroke her thigh lightly, letting my hand run up and over
the exposed part of her bottom.
Her skin was incredibly soft and smooth and warm. I
didn't want only to touch and rub her, I wanted to kiss
and taste that skin, to run the tip of my tongue over it,
to bury my face in it--but I couldn't, and I didn't.
After a few minutes, Sarah sighed and rolled to her back.
I gave her a minute to settle into her new position, then
I pushed her nightgown up. This time, I did depart from
the script slightly. I didn't lift her nightgown only
enough to expose her pussy. Carefully, carefully, I kept
inching it up until her breasts were exposed, too. I
wanted to see her breasts and nipples so badly I could
barely stand it. I wanted to see as much of her as I
could. All of her.
When her nightgown was at the top of her breasts, I stood
back and looked again, marveling at the sheer beauty of
her grown-up little-girl bush, and her adolescent
breasts, only slightly rising from her chest as she lay
on her back. She had adolescent nipples, too, pink and
small. In that position, in the soft glow of the
candlelight, she looked half her real age, and my cock
swelled almost to bursting.
Then I started touching her, but again I departed from
the script slightly. I didn't do exactly what she'd
described on the tape and go directly for her pussy. I
let my fingers trail lightly up her thighs, stroking
repeatedly from her knees upward, stopping just before I
got to her pussy lips. Then I moved to her breasts,
placing the palm of my hand flat on them and rubbing
softly.
I traced the outline of her breasts with a fingertip,
making circles that spiraled inward toward her nipples.
As I teased around those pink, pubescent buds, the
aureoles puckered, and her nipples rose to proud little
points.
From her breasts, I moved my hand downward, rubbing her
stomach and tracing circles around her navel. Sarah
sighed again and moved her legs apart slightly. Only
after I'd satisfied myself that I'd touched as much of
her as I dared did I let my hand come to rest on her
pussy, cupping all of it like a fragile treasure.
When my hand's journey arrived for its sojourn on Sarah's
pussy, I pushed my shorts down and brought out my
bursting cock. If I'd wanted to, I could have come in
only a few quick strokes, but the script didn't call for
that, and I wanted to make these moments last as long as
I possibly could.
Barely squeezing my cock, I dipped my middle finger
between Sarah's legs. She moaned softly and lifted her
hips slightly to meet my touch. She was already wet. My
finger started its dance between her legs, stroking
gently from bottom to top and back down, again and again.
On each pass over the opening to her vagina, I pressed
lightly, letting my finger just slip in to pick up more
wetness and lubricate its slide. My finger slipped and it
slid, up, down, around, dipping in, going down to the
ridged pucker of her asshole and up to the bump of her
clitoris. I squeezed her pussy lips together gently, then
put my finger back between them.
Finally, I focused my attention on her clitoris, hard and
sticking out from her pink, swollen labia, and at the
same time began stroking my cock in earnest. This time,
no images of sister flashed across the reality of Sarah.
This was only Sarah, and I wasn't just fondling her slyly
in the middle of the night. I was making love to her in
the only way available to me.
As I zeroed in on her clitoris and began rubbing around
it and stroking it back and forth as I stroked my cock
with the same rhythm, beads of perspiration appeared on
Sarah's upper lip. She began to moan and to move her hips
in time with my stroking, her movements becoming stronger
with each pass of my finger over her clit.
As her breathing quickened and I felt her muscles begin
to tense, I quickened the strokes on my cock, then, all
at once, just as her legs clamped my hand between them
and she let out a long "Aaaaaaaaaaah," I came so hard
that my vision blacked out for a few moments. From
somewhere in the blackness, I felt my cock pulsing and
pulsing, pushing out shot after shot of semen with an
intensity that eclipsed the entire world.
When my vision returned, I saw that I'd drenched Sarah's
pussy and stomach with my come. She was panting as if
she'd just crossed a finish line, and her chest was a
bright pink. I was gulping air and struggling to remain
upright on knees that were threatening to fold like paper
at any moment.
The air was redolent with the scent of Sarah and me,
tropical with the heat and moisture of our passion. I
gave Sarah's clitoris a few more very soft strokes, her
hips jerking at every touch, and squeezed the final few
drops of semen from my softening prick. Finally, I
swallowed hard, then gathered up some kleenexes for the
mop-up.
I put my hands on Sarah's shoulders and shook her gently.
"Sarah?" I whispered. "Sarah?"
Once again, her eyes flew open. "Da--" she began,
stopping herself quickly. "Oh, Mark. Mark! My God, what
happened? Oh, my God. I feel like I've been on a roller
coaster ride between Mars and Venus. Oh, my God!"
She threw her arms around my neck and pulled me down to
her with astonishing strength. As my nose went into the
hair above her ear, the points of her nipples pressed
against my chest. I inhaled deeply, smelling her shampoo
and skin, and feeling the dampness of her skin against
me.
"Oh, Mark," she said again. "Oh, my God." I ran my
fingers through her damp hair and down to her shoulders
and hugged her back. I nibbled at her earlobe and kissed
the side of her neck. With the tip of my tongue, I tasted
her slight saltiness.
Finally, after a long time, but still too soon, Sarah
relaxed her hold on me and pushed me back. "Oh, Mark,"
she said. "What happened? What happened?"
I looked down at her, feeling love and tenderness for her
that the script didn't call for and that I couldn't tell
her about. "From the outside," I said, "it looked pretty
much the same as it did last time. I think that whatever
happened that sent you on your roller-coaster ride
happened inside of you."
Sarah looked at me with wide eyes, chewing pensively on
her lower lip.
"Mark, I.... I mean.... I think...."
"Go ahead," I said. "It's okay. You can say anything you
want to."
"I.... I don't know what to say. My emotions feel all
scrambled up, and I don't know exactly how I feel. I
feel.... I think...."
Sarah lapsed into silence again. I waited.
After a long minute or two, she said, "I think I need to
think about everything for a while." She threw her arms
around my neck again and gave me a bone-crushing hug.
"Thank you, Mark. Just thank you. You're so.... you're so
*nice* to have agreed to help me like this."
I thought maybe I should be thanking her. I'd never felt
as strongly about a woman as I now felt about Sarah. I
wanted to lie down beside her, wrap my arms around her,
hold her, protect her from herself and the world, give
her a safe place, lose myself in the feel and scent of
her. But I couldn't do that. I suddenly became aware of a
tremendous emptiness within myself.
"You know you don't have to thank me," I said, stroking
her hair.
"All you have to do is be yourself."
Sarah relaxed her grip again, and, reluctantly, I stood,
looking down at her. "I guess I should go," I said. I
bent forward and kissed her on the forehead. "Sleep
well."
Sarah drew a breath as if to speak, then stopped. When
she did speak, she said, "You too. Good-night."
I went to the living room, dressed quickly, and then
slipped out the front door. I didn't want to leave. Even
though my body was walking away from her apartment and
getting into my car, I'd left some part of me behind with
Sarah. Back home, I undressed again and went to bed,
lying in a fetal position, trying very hard to wrap
around the sudden emptiness I was feeling.
The next day at work two things happened. The first,
completely unexpected, was that I was asked to go to
observe and analyze a customer's installation in Kuala
Lumpur. Cell phones were big business in Southeast Asia,
where the population wants to become First-World and it's
a lot faster, easier, and cheaper to set up a microwave
transmitter than it is to run phone lines through
congested cities and dense jungles.
I was to leave the next Saturday at noon, stay a week,
and return the following weekend. Ordinarily, I would
have been overjoyed with the opportunity for travel. I
loved going to foreign countries, seeing other cultures,
and learning more about the world. But, this time, I'd
rather have stayed at home. At least a while longer
before leaving the country for a week. But I was in no
position to say no.
The second, not unexpected, was an email message from
Sarah:
Thank you again for last night.
I think it's working. Can you do it one more time,
please?
Could I do it one more time? I could do it a thousand
more times. A million more times. I could spend the rest
of my life touching and feeling and smelling Sarah.
You're welcome.
Good. Of course.
I sent back to her. What about timing this time? I fussed
and fretted for a while, then finally decided on Friday
night. I wanted the memory of an evening with Sarah,
uncluttered by workdays in between, to take on my trip
with me. And, I reasoned, if I lost some sleep Friday
night, all I had to do was get to the airport on
Saturday, and help sleeping on the long flight would be
welcome.
The rest of the week went by in a complete blur. I had
all kinds of homework to do to prepare myself for the
visit to the customer's site, a zillion meetings to
attend, and all kinds of pep talks to listen to from both
engineers and sales and marketing people. When I got home
at night, I was so pooped that I was brain-dead from
dinnertime until an early bedtime. Friday was there
almost before I knew it.
And Friday night, I was as exhausted as I'd been all
during the week. I ate dinner, then made sure that all my
papers were in my shoulder bag, and that my suitcase was
packed, except for my shaving kit. I took a shower, then,
about 11:00, I sat down to watch television -- and dozed
off. At 3:15, I awoke with a start. Shit! I thought. I
almost missed my appointment with Sarah! I grabbed my
Maglite and jacket, and ran out the door of my apartment.
This time, as I was undressing in Sarah's living room, I
departed from the script again. I didn't leave my Jockey
shorts on. They were only an encumbrance, and, I decided,
Sarah and I had gone far enough that her possibly seeing
the bulge in my shorts wouldn't add much to the drama.
Sarah was, once again, sleeping in the glow of
candlelight. This night, she was lying on her back, and
her nightgown had ridden up just enough to bare the very
bottom of her pussy lips. She was *so* achingly beautiful
lying there that the instant I saw her, my cock started
to rise.
I stood and looked at her, squeezing my swelling cock and
stroking it from time to time. When I couldn't endure the
wait any longer, I once again slid her nightgown up
enough to bare her breasts. This time, I started with her
breasts, rubbing them softly and teasing circles around
her nipples. When her nipples had become thoroughly hard,
I moved my hand down to her stomach, rubbing in circles,
and pausing to move just the pad of my index finger
around her navel.
Then I started at her ankles and rubbed up her lower legs
and her thighs. Her legs parted slightly. I put the palm
of my hand on the inside of her thigh and stroked up
almost until I touched her pussy, when slid my hand back
down to her knee. I repeated the motion on her other
thigh with the back of my hand, not quite touching her
pussy, but lifting my and tracing around the top of her
slit and through her bush, then back down the inside of
the thigh nearest to me.
After some minutes of rubbing her thighs and around her
pussy, I dipped one finger into her wet and ready slit.
Her pussy lips parted, and her clitoris made its
appearance. Up and down I rubbed, her pussy and my finger
getting wetter, sliding my finger down to her asshole and
back up to her clit. Her breathing got heavier, and she
moaned softly.
At this point, I didn't much care whether there was a
script or not. I wanted to taste Sarah, all of her. I
leaned over the bed and put one hand one either side of
her shoulders, and kissed her on the forehead, at the
same time inhaling the fresh scent of clean hair and
shampoo.
With my lips barely touching her, I kissed around her
forehead and onto her cheeks, the tip of her nose, and,
very lightly, brushed my lips over hers. I kissed on down
to her chest, all around her breasts and her nipples. I
ran the tip of my tongue around and over her nipples,
then placed my lips over them, more giving them a very
wet kiss than sucking them.
My mouth continued downward, to her stomach and around
her navel. I licked all around her navel and dipped my
tongue into it. My lips continued down to her bush, where
I moved them back and forth over her fur as it were the
finest pelt, then moved further downward still, along
first one side of her pussy lips, then down the other. I
kissed down one thigh and back up the other.
Finally, throwing both the script and all caution to the
wind, I got up on the bed and knelt between Sarah's legs.
I bent forward and kissed her on the outside of her pussy
lips, from her bush down as far as I could go.
When I extended my tongue and ran it up her slip, I heard
her breath hiss in through her teeth. I curled my tongue
into the wet opening between her legs, savoring the
flavor and the hot, female scent of her, then licked up
until the tip of my tongue flicked over her clit--and
felt her fingers lace themselves into my hair and grip
tight.
"Hi, Mark," Sarah laughed. "You're late tonight."
"You're awake!"
"You bet I am." Sarah sat up just enough to skin her
nightgown off over her head, then lay back and wiggled
her fingers at me in a come-hither gesture. "C'mere,
you," she said, "c'mere, c'mere, c'mere."
I raised up, leaned forward, and, in one motion, wrapped
my arms around her and slid into her waiting wetness.
Without speaking, we clung to each other like two
survivors of a shipwreck, hanging onto each other for
dear life. I touched my lips to hers, then our mouths
joined, and we kissed, and we kissed, and we kissed, our
tongues dancing with each other, sharing our souls along
with our saliva.
After several minutes, Sarah rocked her hips up and
wrapped her legs around the back of my thighs. "Oh, Mark,
I can *feel* you," she sighed. "God, can I feel you, and
God, do you feel *good*. Then, as we started to move,
time ceased to have meaning.
We were completely lost in each other, the twistings and
thrustings of our bodies only the physical expression of
the dance of our souls. As Sarah's hips became more
insistent against mine and her orgasm washed over her
with a wail that started at the tips of her toenails, I
came, too, dying and being reborn in moments.
We continued to cling to one another while the world
reassembled itself, panting and rubbing our perspiration
into each other. Finally, Sarah gasped, "Mark, I....
Mark, I...."
I touched her lips with my finger. "Shhh," I said. "Me,
too."
We continued to lie wordlessly, face-to-face and belly-
to-belly, kissing lightly and touching each other's
faces, until I shriveled out of her. We mopped ourselves
up a little, then we rolled to our sides. Sarah drew her
knees up and snuggled against me; I wrapped my arms
around her as I might have a child, my heart aching with
love and tenderness, a desire to protect this woman next
to me, and a hope that the feeling could last forever.
And then we slept.
I woke up again at about 8:00, and my first thought was
about catching my flight to Malaysia. Then I realized
that I was not at home. However Sarah and I might have
twisted and turned as we slept, we were snuggled in the
same spoon position in which we'd gone to sleep, and my
morning hard-on was clamped firmly between Sarah's
thighs, resting against the nearly hairless lips of her
pussy. I moved only slightly, tentatively, as if to
separate myself from her.
Sarah grabbed my wrists and pulled me more tightly to
her. Then she lifted her top leg a bit, wiggled her hips
a little, and I was inside her to the hilt. We lay joined
like that, drifting in and out of sleep, I think, for a
while, then I moved in and out of her with long, slow
strokes, until I came with a peaceful release that
carried with it all the love I felt for Sarah, and she
shuddered against me. And we lay joined still, until I
was no longer in her.
We separated, and Sarah rolled over so that we could look
into each other's eyes. I kissed her lightly, and ran my
finger across her forehead, brushing her hair from her
eyes. What was in my heart was, "I love you." What I said
was, "Sarah, I have to go now."
Disappointment traced across her face in capital letters.
"Oh, Mark, I...." She wrapped her arms around my neck and
hugged me until my bones cracked. "...I know," she said.
Even though the script had gone completely out the
window, I still dressed in the living room, just as
before, and departed, leaving Sarah lying in her bed.
This time, a large part of me remained behind with her,
wishing circumstances were different, wanting to stay
wrapped around her, to be inside her, to have breakfast
with her, to brush my teeth standing next to her at the
bathroom sink.
I raced home and took a quick shower, my hair still damp
when the airport shuttle arrived at my door. Thank God
I'd had the foresight to be completely packed the night
before.
I wish I could say that I enjoyed my stay in Kuala Lumpur
to the limit, that I was able to be there one hundred
percent, and go with the flow, but I didn't; I wasn't. My
meeting with the customer was completely successful. We
tweaked his installations and surveyed new routes for his
expansion. I more than justified my trip. I did do
touristy stuff, in a detached way.
I learned that KL was not a new city, but had been built
from scratch during the middle of the nineteenth century.
I learned that "kuala lumpur" means "confluence of two
muddy rivers," and I stood at the confluence of those
rivers, now encased in concrete flood control channels,
and far less muddy than they might have been a hundred or
more years ago.
Being accustomed to the semiarid climate of Silicon
Valley, I was wretched in the tropical heat and humidity,
and, along with thousands of locals, ate dinner on the
street, purchased from a two-block long array of sidewalk
vendors.
I fell in love with satay, thin strips of grilled beef on
wooden skewers, served with a peanut sauce. Being 180
degrees out of phase with my own time zone, and having
crossed the international dateline, I literally never
knew what day it was. I finally made a list of days, and
crossed one off each night when I went to sleep.
Sarah's spirit was with me every waking moment, hovering
around my head and shoulders, reminding me of the night
we'd spent together, and it visited me in my dreams,
leaving me with an ache in my chest and my groin. My body
was in Malaysia, but my heart was in an apartment in San
Jose, and I couldn't wait for my body and my heart to be
reunited.
I got home at 4:00 on Sunday afternoon. With my last
ounce of energy, I washed off the stickiness and smell of
Malaysia, airplanes, and airports, and collapsed on my
bed, where I remained for fifteen hours. It was 10:00 on
Monday morning before I got into the office. My body was
in San Jose, but I felt like my biorhythms were somewhere
between Guam and Hawaii.
At work, I dropped my tote bag at my desk, then went out
onto the main floor to get travel expense forms from the
departmental admin. Sarah was there, on the other side of
the room, chatting with some friends. She and I saw each
other at the same time, and she began to run. She came
toward me as fast as she could, bobbing and weaving
around desks like a backfield runner. Her face was clear
and shining with a smile with a smile that lit the room
and my heart.
She wasn't wearing any makeup, except for some light
lipstick, and, to me, she looked more beautiful than she
ever had. "Maaaaaaaark," she began to call loudly, when
she'd closed about half the distance between us. Heads
all over the room popped up, and people came to the doors
of their cubicles.
When she was close enough, she launched herself, and hit
me with an impact that nearly bowled me over. She wrapped
her arms around my neck and her legs around my waist, and
clung tight. With her face buried in my neck, she said,
"Mark, oh, Mark, I thought you were never going to get
back. I've missed you *so* much." The entire room was
dead silent, and there wasn't a jaw that wasn't agape.
Presently, Sarah relaxed her grip and let her legs slide
down mine until they reached the floor. With her wrists
crossed behind my neck, she said, "You gonna come see me
tonight?"
"You bet," I said. "How about if I take you out to dinner
first?"
As for the rest of the folks at DigiHertz, I'm sure
they'll figure it out by and by.
parth_nogenesis@XXXhotmail.com
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 23