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Message-ID: <31352asstr$994684204@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: fader2011@my-deja.com (Jacques LeBlanc)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 9 Jul 2001 05:10:23 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} RP: Reciprocity (M/f, teen, celeb, cons, rom, first) by Jacques LeBlanc
Date: Mon,  9 Jul 2001 09:10:04 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Warning: This story contains explicit descriptions of sexual activity;
if you are underage, live in a place where such material is illegal,
or are simply uncomfortable with this kind of story, then don't read
it.  (And get out of this newsgroup!  What did you *expect* to find in
alt.sex.stories?) This story also contains some violence, but there is
no overlap between that and the sex.

This story is purely a fantasy.  It involves a certain celebrity from
real life about whom quite a few of us seem to have fantasies; I want
to make it perfectly clear that I hold her in the highest esteem, as
an actress and as a human being.  My portrayal of her is based partly
on published interviews with her, partly on inference, and partly on
wishful thinking.  If you're really curious about which is which, just
ask.  Also, the violent material I mentioned should make it abundantly
clear how I feel about fantasies involving the sexual violation of
this individual.

Finally, this story is Copyright 1999 by Jacques LeBlanc.  You can
send it to your friends, save it to your hard drive, print it out to
read at your leisure, and repost it (as long as no changes are made to
any of the text, including this notice) wherever you think it will be
well-received--but any commercial use is absolutely prohibited.


Reciprocity
by Jacques LeBlanc
(M/f, teen, celeb, cons, rom, first)


The sun had long since set, and the late spring night was growing
cool.  I checked my watch: 10:43 PM.  As I shifted my position to get
more comfortable on the flat roof, I heard the crunching sound of a
vehicle on the gravel driveway below me.

In an instant I came fully alert, peering down through an open
skylight into the gloomy old warehouse.  After a moment, one of the
garage doors along the east wall slid open, and a black van rolled
slowly inside.  The man who had opened the door stepped in after it,
pulled the door back down behind him, then switched on the lights.

I blinked at the brightness, and moved back a bit from the skylight. 
The driver of the van cut the engine, then jumped out and came around
to open the side door.  As it slid aside, I could see a pair of small
feet, encased in black high heels and bound together at the ankles,
sticking out over the edge of the seat.  The driver grabbed the ankles
and stepped back, and the slight form of a young girl emerged from the
van.  She was wearing a deep burgundy dress--a prom dress, I
thought--which ended slightly above her knees.  *Not a hooker this
time,* I thought.  *And she's white... another Jewish schoolgirl, like
poor Becky Stein?*  I could see that she was being lifted from behind
by another man who held her by her upper arms; her wrists had been
tied behind her, and she was gagged and blindfolded with three-inch
duct tape.  Though I couldn't see much of her face, she seemed vaguely
familiar.  I considered it for a moment, then dismissed the thought in
favor of more immediate concerns.

Once they had her out of the van, the driver slung the girl over his
shoulder, ignoring the groan she gave as the air was forced out of her
lungs, and carried her to the center of the warehouse, where he dumped
her unceremoniously on a large couch.  As his cohorts came to join
him, he began adjusting the video cameras arranged on tripod mounts
around the couch.  A wide variety of whips, chains, tools, knives, and
sex toys were arrayed on a large table to one side; one of the men
walked over and began examining them, while the other sat down next to
the girl and started kneading her breasts through the dress.

The driver spoke for the first time since they had arrived.  "Hey,
Hans, wasn't Curtis supposed to be here by now?"

The man on the couch looked up and said, "Yeah, but you know how he
is; he probably had to work late at the garage.  I'm sure he'll be
along in a few minutes." I smiled grimly, bringing up my rifle and
quietly thumbing the safety off; the fourth member of this vicious
crew, Curtis Byron, was lying in a pool of his own blood on the floor
of his basement, where I had left him after extracting the information
I needed about the whereabouts of his accomplices.

"Well," said the man by the table, turning around with a
cat-o-nine-tails in his hand, "I don't see why we need to wait for
him; let's get started."

"Good idea," said Hans, running one hand up the girl's silk-sheathed
leg and under her dress.  "I can't wait to get a piece of this little
kike.  Hey Scott, I'll flip you for first turn with her." *So those
are Hans Schultz and Scott Clarkson,* I thought.  That would make the
cameraman Dennis Kessler: ex-Marine, ex-cop, and by far the most
dangerous of the group.  *So he gets the first round....*  I slipped
my finger into the trigger guard.  *Come on, asshole, give me a clear
shot.*

Clarkson, the man with the whip, leered and moved toward the couch as
the girl shook her head violently and tried to protest through the
gag.  Kessler said, "Hey, guys, just hang on until I get all the
cameras working, okay?" As he bent to look through the eyepiece of the
last camera, I sighted on the base of his skull and squeezed the
trigger, simultaneously thumbing the switch on the remote control in
my other hand.

The soft "pfft!" of the silencer was masked by the much louder
"crack!" of the blasting cap I had hidden behind some crates in one
corner of the warehouse earlier.  Kessler dropped without a sound, the
junction of his brain and spine obliterated by the 9mm hollow point
round.  The other two men dived to the floor, seeking cover from the
apparent source of the shot.  I sighted on Schultz's head, fired, then
quickly shifted my aim and put two rounds in Clarkson's torso before
he could react.  He gave an awful, gurgling cry, which cut off
abruptly as my third shot hit just behind his ear.

A wave of exultation washed over me.  It was over!  After nearly two
years, it had all ended in less than a minute; the men who had
murdered my parents and fiancee were dead.

A frightened whimper from the girl brought me back to reality.  I
swiftly anchored the climbing rope I had used to reach the roof, then
slid down into the warehouse.  The moment I hit the floor, I moved
quickly over to the couch, careful not to slip in the spreading
puddles of blood around the dead men.  Reaching the girl, I laid a
gentle hand on her shoulder, and spoke in my most reassuring voice:
"It's all right, you're safe now.  Your kidnappers are dead." She made
a quizzical sound; sitting down beside her, I carefully peeled away
the tape that covered her mouth.

"Thank you," she said.  "May I ask who you are?" Her voice was vaguely
familiar, too, but I still couldn't place her.

"A friend," I said, drawing my knife and cutting the cords that bound
her ankles.  "Can you stand?"

"I'm not sure," she replied, as I freed her wrists.  Immediately she
lifted her hands to pull away the tape over her eyes, but I stopped
her.  "Not yet," I said.  "Wait until we get outside.  It's dark out,
which will make it easier for your eyes to adjust.  Besides, you do
*not* want to see the scene in here, believe me you don't."

"Okay, I'll buy that.  Will you help me?"

"Of course." I stood up, took her hands in mine, and helped her to
stand.  She was a bit unsteady on her feet, so I put her right arm
over my shoulders, and wrapped my left around her back to support her.
 Then we walked to the back door of the warehouse, which I had
unlocked earlier, and out into the night.

Once the door was shut behind us, I helped her to sit on a nearby
boulder, and very carefully removed the blindfold.  As she blinked in
the dim light from the street lamps around the corner of the building,
I stared at her face, finally realizing why it was familiar.  "Well,
I'll be especially damned...." I said.  "Natalie Portman!"

She smiled shyly--the same smile that had melted the hearts of
millions of movie viewers at *The Professional,* *Beautiful Girls,*
and, most recently, *Star Wars: The Phantom Menace.*  "That's just a
screen name, you know," she said.

"I do, but I don't know your real name," I replied.  "I love your
work, though."

"Thank you," she said, coloring slightly.  "My real name is Natalie
Levine, but you can just call me Natalie.  Heck, after what you just
did for me, you can call me anything you like."

"How about `sweetheart?'" I asked with a grin, kneeling down to chafe
her ankles where the cords had been.  She flushed a deeper shade of
pink, and replied, "Sure, I guess that's okay, if you want to... what
do I call you?"

"My name is...." I hesitated.  I hadn't used my real name in over two
years, I realized, but now I was free to do so again.  "My name is
Samuel Goldberg." Damn, it felt *good* to say that.  "My friends, back
when I had friends, called me Sam.  I'd like very much to think of you
as a friend, Natalie."

"Oh, I don't think I'll have too hard a time seeing you as a friend,
Sam.  But what do you mean, `back when you had friends?'"

"I'm legally dead," I replied.  "I've lived the last two years of my
life under an assumed name, infiltrating my way into the neo-Nazi
underground until I got to the men who died in that warehouse
tonight... the White Shadows."

"White Shadows...?  I've heard that name before... oh, right, the
Goldberg-Braithewaite murders!  You were the Goldbergs' son... so you
didn't commit suicide after all!  Oh, shoot, I'm sorry Sam...." she
trailed off, seeing the old pain in my face.

"It's all right, Natalie," I said, softly.  "It's been a long time
now, and tonight I've had my revenge."

"You spent two years tracking those creeps down?  Wow... are you sure
your name isn't Inigo?"

I struck a pose, and declaimed in a rough approximation of a Spanish
accent, "Hello.  My name is Inigo Montoya.  You killed my father. 
Prepare to die!" Then I sobered.  "Actually, if it had been just my
parents, I would have grieved, certainly, and done anything I could to
help the police catch the bastards... but I think I would have put it
behind me and gotten on with my life.  It was what they did to my Andi
that set me on this path...." Andrea Braithewaite had been the love of
my life--a brilliant, beautiful college student from England whom I
had met while she was doing an internship under my mother at the
Anti-Defamation League.  When the neo-Nazi thugs who called themselves
White Shadows had invaded my home and shot my parents, they had taken
her alive; after holding a mock trial and sentencing her to death for
the "crimes" of miscegenation and race treason, they had used her in
their first snuff movie.  Since then, they had tortured and murdered
six other young women and girls that I knew about, and probably a few
more that I didn't.  Most of their victims had been black or Hispanic
prostitutes, but one had been a middle-class high school student, whom
they had apparently chosen because she was an Orthodox Jew... and of
course, their last intended victim had been the lovely young actress
before me.

"So, what do we do now?" she asked.

"Well, my car is parked just through the trees over there," I said,
pointing.  "I'll have to take you home, of course, but I think that
had better wait until morning; it's going to be a very long ride.

"It was getting here.  Six hours in that van, tied up and blindfolded,
with those bastards pinching and pawing at me..." she shuddered, and I
though she was about to be sick, but after a moment she managed to get
control of her emotions again.  "Where are we, anyway?"

"Maryland," I replied.  "Northwest of Baltimore, near the New Jersey
border."

"Really?  I used to live here, before we moved up to Long Island.  I
guess I won't be getting back there tonight."

"No.  We'll go to my place; it's only about half an hour away.  You
can call your parents from there and let them know you're all right."

"God, yes," she agreed.  "They must be worried sick.  Those creeps
called my father on a cell phone right after they picked me up; they
said they wanted ten million dollars, which they expected he could get
from George.  They put me on the phone just long enough so that he'd
know they were telling the truth, then cut it off."

"George?  ....Oh.  Clever bastards.  Ten million is a drop in the
bucket to George Lucas, and I'm sure he'd pay it to get you back
unharmed."

"He wouldn't want to have to recast the role of Amidala in the next
two movies," she deadpanned.  "But seriously, he'd do it even if he
didn't need me professionally; he's a good friend, and like you said,
ten million is nothing to him."

"They wouldn't have let you go, though, Natalie," I said.  "I'm sorry
to have to talk about this, but it may become important.  It's
possible I'll be tried for murder for this night's work, and you may
be called to testify.  Those men were going to rape you and kill you
tonight, on camera.  That's one of the ways they finance their
terrorist activities: the production and sale of snuff movies.  It's
what they did to Andrea, and at least six other girls.  They might
have tried to collect the ransom, but you would have been dead before
it was ever paid--after starring in one last, horrible movie."

The blood had all drained from her face, and her eyes were very wide. 
"That's what he meant about the cameras," she said, recalling her
kidnappers' conversation back in the warehouse.  "Oh, God..." She
started shaking uncontrollably.  I wrapped her in my arms and rocked
her gently until the horror passed, murmuring over and over again,
"It's all right sweetheart, you're safe now, nobody's going to hurt
you...." After a few minutes she calmed down, and I released her.

"Thanks again," she said, softly.  "I needed that."

"You're welcome, Natalie.  Shall we go?"

"Lead on."

We walked down a narrow path through the green belt behind the
warehouse to another empty lot where I had parked.  "Nice car,"
Natalie commented, on seeing my Taurus.

"Thanks.  I suppose it is a pretty nice car, but I got it mainly
because it's inconspicuous; there are more maroon Tauruses on the
highway these days than you can shake a stick at."

She nodded.  "Smart.  Do you think of everything?"

"I certainly try; you sort of have to, when you're dealing on a
regular basis with very suspicious people who would kill you if they
knew who you really were... not to mention trying to work your way
into the confidences of criminals without attracting attention from
the law." I opened the passenger door first and stood back.

"Sounds like quite a balancing act," she observed as she got in,
graciously accepting the unnecessary but chivalrous hand I offered. 
"And I thought I had it tough trying to balance school with my acting
career...."

"Don't underrate yourself," I told her.  "If half of what I've read
about you is true, I'll bet you could do everything I've done, given
sufficient motivation.  Just thank your lucky stars you never had it."

"Amen to that," she replied.  I shut the door, then went around to
climb in the driver's side.

"So, Natalie," I asked, pulling out of the parking lot, "Would you
mind telling me how those bastards managed to kidnap you?  I would
have thought, given your fame and the risk of being stalked, that you
would have a bodyguard or two."

"Not at home," she ruefully replied.  "When I'm working, I usually
have someone from studio security along when I leave the set, and one
of my parents as well, but when I'm home I've relied on being
anonymous.  Based on what I've read about celebrity stalkers, I
figured that I'd have plenty of warning before someone like that
became dangerous--they generally start by sending lots of fan mail.  I
get my share of that, of course, but I've never had anything that
would make a person nervous enough to hire a full-time bodyguard."

"I see," I said.  "So what happened tonight?"

"Well, I was on my way to the senior prom with my friend Seth
Ruben--no, he's *only* a friend, so don't get any ideas...."

"I didn't say a thing," I demurred.

"Your eyes did," she replied.  "I suppose it's inevitable, though,
this country seems to live on gossip about actors.  I think it's a
silly waste of time, as well as an invasion of privacy, but what can a
person do?"

"Exactly what you do," I replied.  "Keep your real name and where you
live secret, and live the kind of personal life that doesn't generate
any interesting gossip.  But you were saying...."

"Yeah.  Seth picked me up in the limo about 4:30; we were supposed to
pick up another couple, then go to dinner before the dance.  Instead,
the driver pulled off into a grocery store parking long, and parked
behind the store where nobody usually goes.  Then he opened the
partition and pulled a gun on us.  He told me to get out of the car
and Seth to stay where he was.  There were two men in ski masks
waiting to grab me when I got out; they pulled me into their van,
slapped duct tape over my eyes, and tied my wrists and ankles.  Then
they called my parents and made their demands.  After putting me on
the phone just long enough to tell my father that it wasn't a hoax,
they cut it off and taped my mouth.  I still can't figure out how they
replaced the limo driver with one of their people."

"Well, I can't say for sure, but I'll tell you how I would have done
it.  First I'd have to find out where you lived and who you were going
to the prom with; I presume they accomplished that by following you,
and possibly tapping your phones--the leader of the group was an
ex-cop, and they had some skill at surveillance.  Then I'd get a limo
of my own and arrive at your friend's house before the one he'd hired.
 If they tapped his phone as well after establishing that he was your
date, they would know which company he called, and they could just
rent one from the same place.  Or they might have car-jacked the one
that Seth had called before it got to his house.  Speaking of which, I
hope they didn't hurt your friend; it wasn't like those bastards to
leave living witnesses."

"I think I'd have heard if the driver had shot him," she said.  "I
mean, his gun wasn't silenced or anything.  Anyway, he had dark
glasses and a full beard when he was driving the limo; after they
grabbed me, they drove for about fifteen minutes and then stopped for
a while.  I think they changed the license plates on the van, and I
also heard an electric razor; I don't think he was worried about being
recognized after that."

"I suppose not," I said.  "They probably didn't want a murder
investigation to start right away.  As long as they'd only committed
kidnapping, there was a chance your parents wouldn't involve the
police immediately; even if they did, the cops would be more
circumspect in pursuing kidnappers who hadn't killed anyone yet."

"That makes sense.  They did tell my parents not to call the police."

"Do you think they listened?"

"I don't know.  They might have called George first, to see if he
would help pay the ransom.  If he said yes, it's possible that they
wouldn't risk calling the police."

"I rather hope that they didn't," I said.  "It would make my life a
bit easier."

"How do you mean?" she asked.

"I'd like to have some time to consider my options before they find
those bodies and the manhunt starts," I replied.  "If the police know
you were kidnapped and then rescued, they'll be onto me a lot faster
than they would otherwise.  I still haven't decided what to do.  My
original plan was to flee to Israel after I'd killed the Shadows--if
they didn't extradite that psychopath Samuel Sheinbein, they certainly
aren't going to extradite Samuel Goldberg.  However, with you in the
picture, I might not have to leave the country; under the
circumstances, what I did might be considered justifiable homicide."

"Well, Sam, you can count on me to support that argument," she said,
with a grateful smile.  "You saved my life; I'll be happy to do
anything I can to help you."

"Thanks, Natalie."

We drove on in companionable silence for a few minutes.  Then she
said, "I was wondering, where did you get that gun?  It looks
military."

"It is," I said.  "Actually, you and my rifle have something in
common; it was made in Israel.  It's a sniper's variant of the Uzi,
used mainly by IDF commandos and Mossad operatives.  It's light,
compact, accurate, and silent--and of course, *very* illegal in this
country."

"I see.  So how does a lone gunman on a quest for revenge come by a
fancy Israeli weapon?"

"Trade secret, Natalie; the less you know, the easier it'll be for you
to testify in my defense without lying.  Maybe after I've been
acquitted I'll tell you the rest of the story.  I shouldn't have told
you even this much; I'd much rather let the law think that I shot the
White Shadows with my perfectly legal, registered Glock."

"Sam, I said I'd do anything to help you.  I *am* an actress after
all; don't you think I can tell a convincing story?"

"I'm sure you can, but I'd rather you didn't have to.  But if you're
really that curious, I suppose I can take the chance... just remember,
this conversation never happened."

"Okay.  So what is this story I'm never going to hear?"

I flashed her a grin.  "My closest living relative is my mother's
brother--Colonel Avram Jacob Lefkowitz, Israeli Defense Forces,
retired.  The `retired' part is misleading, though; he actually works
for the Mossad.  In return for a substantial contribution to his
directorate's black budget, he enabled me to spend six months training
in Israel--the same sort of training that Mossad field operatives
receive--and to requisition some equipment from the agency's arsenal. 
Now that my `mission' is over, that equipment is going home; I have
most of it boxed up already, addressed to a townhouse in Tel Aviv that
the agency uses as a mail drop.  The rifle is the last thing; it'll be
going back in several pieces, sent from several different UPS and
Fed-Ex offices."

"I see.  Well, that was a long silence." She winked.  "Do you have any
music we could listen to?"

"Every song Billy Joel ever wrote," I replied.  Sharing my music was
another pleasure that I had had to deny myself over the last two
years.  I often reflected that one of the hardest parts of my mission
of infiltration was pretending to share the atrocious musical tastes
of the skinheads and Klansmen with whom I had to rub elbows, while
keeping my real music collection carefully hidden.  "Plus an eclectic
mix of classical, pop, and movie and Broadway soundtracks.  What would
you like?"

"Billy Joel sounds good.  How about `Only the Good Die Young?'"

"I thought I disproved that theory tonight," I cracked.  "And I prefer
to listen to that one when I can dance to it.  But pick whatever you
like; the CDs are in a case in the glove compartment." She opened the
hatch, pulled out the CD case, and leafed through it.  After a
moment's consideration, she pulled out "Glass Houses" and slipped it
into the player.  "Good album," I approved.  "I hope you don't mind if
I sing along...."

"Not if I can too."

"Fair enough.  `Friday night I crashed your party,/Saturday I said I'm
sorry,/Sunday came and trashed me out again...'" we sang in unison, as
the music started.

Twenty minutes later we arrived at my home, a small, secluded farm
house on a wooded side road in Harford County.  "This looks like a
good place for someone who doesn't want to attract attention," she
commented.

"That's why I chose it," I said.  "Come on inside." I deactivated my
security system and led her into the house.  "What do you think?"

She looked around, clearly surprised.  "This is really nice," she
said, finally.  "Different than I expected...." While the outside of
my house has the weatherbeaten, slightly dilapidated look typical of
old farm houses, the inside is thoroughly modern and very comfortable,
with deep pile carpeting, hardwood furniture, well-stocked
bookshelves, and prints of various Renaissance and Impressionist
paintings decorating the walls.

"You expected something more spartan, perhaps?" I asked.

"Yeah, I think so.  I guess I was imagining something like Leon's
apartment in `The Professional.'"

"Ah.  No, that isn't my style at all; I like to live comfortably. 
And, as a certain Robert Heinlein character once said, `I'm not an
assassin.  Killing is more of a hobby with me.'"

She gave me a quizzical look.  "Which character was that?  I've read a
few of his books, but I don't remember that line."

"That was Dr.  Richard Ames, in *The Cat Who Walks Through Walls,*" I
replied.

"Oh.  I never read that one.  I've read *Stranger in a Strange Land,*
of course, and *The Moon is a Harsh Mistress,* *Time Enough for Love,*
*The Door into Summer,* *Podkayne of Mars,* and few of his juvenile
novels."

"*The Moon is a Harsh Mistress* is my favorite novel," I said.  "If
you've read that one, you really should read *Cat;* they resurrect
Mike at the end of that one."

"Oh, cool.  I will have to read it some time.  What I have to do right
now, though, is call my parents and tell them I'm all right.  May I
use your phone?"

"Of course," I said, handing her the receiver.  She quickly dialed,
then held it up to her ear.

"Hello, Dad?  Yes, of course it's me... I'm fine.  It's kind of a long
story, but the short version is that I was rescued....  No, not the
police... he's a sort of modern-day knight-errant.  His name's Sam
Goldberg.  The guys that kidnapped me killed his parents and his
fiance two years ago, and he's been looking for them ever since.... 
yeah, *that* Sam Goldberg; it seems he didn't kill himself after all. 
He says..." she swallowed, looked at me for reassurance, then
collected herself and continued.  "He says that they were planning to
do to me what they did to Andrea Braithewaite... that they make snuff
films, like in that awful Nicholas Cage movie that came out a few
months ago.  We're down in Maryland somewhere; Sam says he'll drive me
back to Long Island tomorrow morning.  You want to talk to him? 
Okay...." She handed me the phone.

"Hello, Dr.  Levine.  I'm Sam Goldberg."

"So I gather," said the faintly accented voice on the other end of the
line.  "I want to thank you for what you've done for my daughter; if
there's ever anything I can do for you in return, you have only to
ask."

"Thank you," I replied.  "There is something, actually; I'd like you
not to tell the police about me just yet.  You see, in the process of
rescuing Natalie, I had to kill all three of her kidnappers--and while
you might agree with me that the Nazi bastards had it coming, I don't
know that the law will see it that way."

"I understand," he said.  "As it happens, we haven't called the
police.  When the kidnappers called me before, they said that they had
contacts within the police department who would tell them if I called,
and that I would never see my daughter alive again; they told
Natalie's date and the limousine driver the same, and I wasn't about
to call their bluff."

"It might not have been a bluff," I said.  "The leader of the gang,
Dennis Kessler, was a former NYPD officer; it's conceivable he knew
someone who would share information with him.  It wouldn't even have
to be an accomplice; the kidnapping of a famous actress is the sort of
thing that would come up if he simply asked an old friend whether
there were any interesting new cases being investigated.  Even if the
informant was a bluff, it's very hard to keep the tabloids away from
something like this; if you had called the police, there's at least a
fifty-fifty chance the *National Enquirer* or the *New York Post*
would have had the kidnapping on the front page tomorrow.  Not that it
would have made a difference; those thugs never intended to let your
daughter go."

"So she tells me.  Again, thank you for saving her life."

"You're welcome.  You mentioned Seth and the limo driver just now; are
they okay?" I asked.

"Yes.  The driver had been drugged and locked in the trunk, but he was
alive, and Seth was fine too, if somewhat shaken.  The poor boy kept
apologizing for letting this happen--as if there was anything he could
have done to stop it."

"You tell him, from me, that not resisting them was exactly the right
thing to do," I said.  "If he had fought, the only thing he could have
accomplished would have been to get himself killed, and maybe Natalie
with him."

"I'll tell him," he said.  "May I speak with Natalie again?"

"Certainly," I replied, and handed her the phone.  "I'm going to go in
the kitchen and make something for us to eat," I told her.  "Come on
in when you're finished talking." She smiled and gave me a thumbs-up.

A few minutes later she joined me in the kitchen.  "What's for
dinner?" She asked.

"Hummus and tabouli salad in pita pockets," I replied, handing her a
plate.  "It's the one thing I like that a strict vegetarian can eat."

"Sounds good," she said.  "How did you know I was a vegetarian?"

"I've read a couple of articles about you.  The one in *Vanity Fair*
mentioned that you don't eat any kind of meat or cheese."

She gave me an odd look.  "You read *Vanity Fair?*"

"Only when they put you on the cover, my dear."

"Oh." She blushed deep red and became preoccupied with her dinner.

"The cover photo was nice," I continued, enjoying the effect of my
half-teasing flattery, "But what I really liked was the one inside
where you posed as both Sleeping Beauty and the Prince.  That was
absolutely gorgeous."

"It was the photographer's idea," she demurred.  "I just posed the way
he told me to."

"All the same, it was your beauty and poise, no less than the
composition, that made that picture work," I said.  "That, and the
symbolism involved in having you play both of those roles."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, as the prince you explore, learn, and overcome obstacles, all
with the goal of awakening the sleeping princess--which is yourself,
your own potential...." I saw the look she was giving me and burst out
laughing.

"What's the joke?" she asked, sounding slightly put out.

"I'm sorry, Natalie," I said.  "It's just that you just gave me the
exact same `You've got to be joking' look you gave Liam Neeson in
*Star Wars,* right after finding out that the kid he's betting your
ship on has never managed to *finish* a pod race, let alone win one. 
So you think I'm reading too much into that picture?"

She thought for a moment.  "Maybe, maybe not.  I never really thought
of it the way you described, but maybe that is what the photographer
had in mind.  So what do you think my potential is?"

"Whatever you want," I replied.  "To be America's next screen goddess,
if you continue your film career.  Otherwise, whatever attracts your
interest while you're in college.  Again, based on what I've read
about you, you're smart enough and determined enough to do whatever
strikes your fancy--medicine, law, science, business, politics...
anything."

She blushed again.  "You shouldn't believe everything you read."

"Oh, I take the hype with a large grain of salt--but I think that in
this case the simple facts speak volumes.  You've managed to graduate
from high school with an `A' average, taking multiple
advanced-placement courses, while acting in six movies and a major
Broadway play.  If you can do that, you can do just about anything you
put your mind to."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she said.  She seemed to be
accepting my compliments with a bit more equanimity now.  "I really
love acting, and I'm glad you think so well of my work, but I don't
know that that's what I want to spend the rest of my life doing."

"Well, to paraphrase one of your movies, `Whatever you do, it's going
to be amazing.'"

"*Beautiful Girls,*" she said.  "I had a lot of fun making that one."

"It showed," I replied.  "Those scenes with you and Tim Hutton really
made that movie for me.  You were the most beautiful girl of them all,
my dear."

"Hmmph.  What kind of man would prefer a skinny thirteen-year-old to
Uma Thurman or Mira Sorvino?"

"Now, now, Natalie, I'm not a pedophile.  It's just that, in assessing
beauty, I tend to pay a lot more attention to faces than figures--and
yours, in my not-so-very-humble opinion, is the loveliest face in
Hollywood today.  The only other actress who comes close is Catherine
Zeta-Jones."

"Now you're making me jealous," she said.  "How can I possibly compete
with a beauty like her?"

"It's not a competition," I replied.  "You and she are such completely
different types that it's like comparing apples and oranges... or
perhaps angels and succubi...."

She shrugged.  "If you say so.  As the saying goes, beauty is in the
eye of the beholder."

"Certainly... and I've never yet met a beautiful woman who fully
recognized her own beauty."

"I'll bet if you did she'd be a terrible snob," Natalie replied. 
"Like Darian in *Beautiful Girls.*"

"Maybe so," I agreed.  "Next to your scenes, I think her comeuppance
at the reunion was the best moment in the movie." We both smiled at
the recollection.

"That was a good scene," she agreed.  "Well... it looks like dinner is
about finished, and it's after midnight, so maybe we'd better get some
sleep."

I nodded, though I didn't feel particularly tired.  "Good idea.  You
can have the bedroom; I'll take the couch."

"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly kick you out of your room..." she
protested.

"No, but I could.  Really, it's fine; I've fallen asleep on that couch
before, and it's perfectly comfortable.  Look at it this way: after
what you've been through tonight, don't you think you'll sleep better
if you have a closed room, and me sleeping between you and the front
door?"

"Mmmm.  Maybe so," she replied, thoughtfully.  "I think I'd feel
pretty safe anywhere in your house, but you're right... it would feel
good to know that anyone who wants to get to me has to get past you
first.  I mean, intellectually I know that those creeps can't possibly
hurt me, or anyone else, ever again.  But emotionally...."

"I know exactly what you mean, Natalie," I said.  "After Andi and my
parents were killed, I had trouble sleeping for months."

She nodded sympathetically.  "I would think it must have been worse
for you, knowing that they were still alive out there."

"That's true," I said, "But I was in Israel most of that time, so it
wasn't a rational fear that they might come after me.  Humans are
afraid of the dark for reasons much older than rationality; when
something terrible happens to us, it makes those instinctive fears all
the more powerful."

"I guess so," she agreed.  "Hmmm.  I could use a shower before I go to
bed; would you mind?"

"Of course not," I replied.  I showed her to the bathroom, and gave
her a clean towel and one of my t-shirts to wear to sleep.  "There's
plenty of soap and shampoo, and an unused toothbrush in the medicine
cabinet.  The bedroom is right across the hall.  I'll be in the living
room if you need anything else."

"Okay." She hesitated for a moment, then stepped up to me and wrapped
her arms around me.  I hugged her back, pleasantly aware of her small
breasts pressing against my chest, and the sweet scent of her silky
brown hair.  "Thanks for everything, Sam," she murmured.

"You're welcome, Natalie.  It's been a pleasure," I replied,
sincerely.

After a long moment she ended the embrace.  "Good night, Sam," she
said.

A line from the movie we'd just been discussing popped into my head:
"Good night, sweet girl."

She gave me look that was half-amused, half-exasperated.  "That was
Andera," she said.  "Marty wouldn't be nearly so easy." She vanished
into the bathroom.

I went back to the kitchen and washed the dishes from dinner, then
returned to the living room to read the news.  After a while I heard
the shower stop, and a few minutes later the opening and closing of
doors as Natalie crossed the hall from the bathroom to the bedroom.

I went back to the bathroom and took my own shower.  As the hot water
sluiced over me, I found my thoughts turning to a glorious vision of
Natalie as she must have appeared in here a few minutes ago, naked and
wet and flushed from the heat.  Simultaneously aroused and disturbed,
I tried to erase the alluring image from my mind.  As I combed my hair
and brushed my teeth, I studied myself in the mirror.  I'm six feet
tall and broad-shouldered, but lean and wiry rather than muscular.  My
neatly trimmed, reddish-brown beard covers a jaw a bit too wide to be
considered classically handsome, and gives some definition to a broad,
plain face.  My eyes are what is generally called "hazel," though I
think "chameleon" would be a better word; they go from bluish gray to
greenish tan, depending on the light, and are deep-set under bushy
brows.  Andrea had liked my looks, even though I had been out of shape
and slightly overweight when we met, but she was in the minority. 
Most women, even with my current, more athletic build, seemed to find
me eminently forgettable.  *Surely Natalie doesn't find you as
attractive as you do her,* I told myself.  *She's seventeen years old,
and you're twenty-five going on about forty.  Sure, she's grateful for
what you did for her, but that doesn't mean she would give herself to
you.  At best, she might give you a good-bye kiss when you take her
home tomorrow.  After that, you'll probably never see her again,
unless you really want to stay and risk going to jail....*  I glanced
balefully down at my cock, still semi-erect from the heat and the
delightful image of Natalie in the shower.  "Forget it, you stupid
tool," I told it.  "There's nothing here for you." At length I pulled
on a t-shirt and sweatpants, then retired to the couch in the living
room.

Try as I might, though, I couldn't sleep; the night's excitement was
simply too much.  I lay awake, musing on the long road which had ended
this night in three quick bursts of gunfire, the problems still to
come, and the amazing luck which had brought me into the company of
one of the brightest rising stars of the silver screen.

* * * * *

Around 1:30, I heard the bedroom door open again, then Natalie's soft
footsteps in the hall.  "Sam?" she whispered, stepping into the living
room.  In the dim light that filtered in from the porch lamp, she
looked tousled and bleary-eyed.  Her arms were folded tightly across
her chest, and she was trembling; I could see goose bumps on her thin
legs.  "Are you awake?"

"Yeah," I replied softly.  "I tend to be a night owl anyway, and it's
been a pretty exciting day; I'm too keyed up to sleep.  What's the
matter?"

"The worst nightmare I've had since I was six years old.  I can't even
remember the details, just that it was horrible, and I woke up with
the shakes... it took me ten minutes just to get up the nerve to get
out of bed and come out here.  Can I sit here with you for a while?"

"Sure," I said, sitting up and moving over to make room.  She sat down
next to me and leaned against my right side.  I put my arm around her
shoulders, and she reached up and gave my hand a grateful squeeze. 
She was still shivering slightly, whether from fear or the cool night
air I couldn't tell; I pulled my blanket around us, covering her bare
legs.  "Thanks, Sam," she whispered.  We sat like that for a while, my
arm around her, her head resting on my shoulder, neither of us saying
a word.  Finally she asked, very hesitantly, "Sam?  Could I, um.... 
Would you... would you like to kiss me?"

I pulled back a bit and turned toward her, studying her face. 
"Natalie, I would like that more than anything in the world... but are
you sure?" She bit her lip and nodded.  "All right." I moved my hand
up from her back to twine my fingers in her hair, and she closed her
eyes as I leaned in and pressed my lips to hers.  After a moment's
hesitation, her lips parted, and I felt her tongue dart against my
mouth and retreat again.  I slipped my own tongue into her mouth,
probing, playing over her little white teeth.  The tips of our tongues
touched with something akin to an electric shock; she moaned softly
and seemed to melt in my arms.  I caught her lower lip lightly in my
teeth, let it slide free, then returned to the dance of tongue against
tongue.  Without really noticing, I had gathered her into my lap; her
arms were wrapped around my neck, while my right hand tangled in her
hair and my left pressed into the small of her back, pulling her
tighter against me.

At length we both came up for air.  She was flushed and breathing
hard, and I was suddenly very aware of her bare legs draped across my
lap, and the absence of a bra beneath her thin cotton t-shirt.

"Natalie..." I said, pausing to steady my voice.  "If we don't stop
now, I don't think we're going to stop at all.  I really ought to send
you back to bed before we do something you'll regret."

"Don't do that, Sam," she pleaded.  Her voice sounded brittle and her
eyes were very bright; she seemed on the edge of bursting into tears. 
"Please... I want your arms around me tonight.  I think... I think if
you hold me, the nightmare won't come back...."

Again I studied her face, seeing for a moment the scared, scarred
little girl she had portrayed so touchingly in *The Professional.* 
That thought was jarring, but, I reminded myself, this was no naive
child I held; Natalie was only a couple of weeks shy of her eighteenth
birthday, unusually mature for her age, and certainly capable of
making her own decisions.  *And the age of consent in Maryland is
sixteen,* I thought, *And I'M not the one one responsible for
transporting her across state lines for immoral purposes.  The most
immoral purpose imaginable, actually, which I thwarted... and if she
chooses to reward me for that, who am I to refuse her...?  Assuming
that is what she wants, of course....*  "All right," I said, finally. 
"But if we're going to sleep together, let's go back to the bedroom."
I disengaged myself from her, stood up, then lifted her in my arms and
carried her down the hall.  Reaching the bedroom, I set her down on my
bed, shut the door behind us, and turned my reading lamp on at its
dimmest setting.  Then I lay down beside her, propping myself up on my
right elbow so I could look at her: delicate little feet, slender,
shapely legs, deliciously curved hips, narrow waist, flat belly,
shallow breasts with hard little nipples outlined by the thin white
cotton of the t-shirt, long, graceful neck, delicate chin, wide mouth,
full lips curved in a languid smile, small, straight nose... wide
brown eyes in which a man might lose his soul.  I brushed a wayward
strand of hair back from her face.  "Natalie," I said, "If you just
want to be held, that's fine, we can leave it at that.  But if we
start kissing again, I don't think it will stop there."

She turned onto her side and got up on one elbow to face me.  "It
won't," she agreed.  "I was too caught up in it before to put the
brakes on; you could have deflowered me right there on the couch, and
I wouldn't have tried to stop you.  Thank you for giving me a
choice... I love you for that, I think, as much as for saving my life.
 And yes, I *do* love you, Sam.  I know, it's crazy, we only met a few
hours ago, and maybe it won't last past tomorrow morning, but right
now I'm dizzy in love with you, and I want to *make* love with you. 
Maybe I'll regret it, but I think I'll regret it more if I don't...
and so will you, right?"

"You've got me there, sweetheart," I told her.  "If I refused you, I'd
be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life.  But now that we
both know what's going to happen, there's no need to rush things; if
this is your first time, it's best we take it slow."

"You're the experienced one here, Sam.  `I put my trust in you, and
where you lead, I follow.'"

"James Thurber," I commented, catching her reference to *The Thirteen
Clocks.*  "You have good taste in books."

"Thank you.  But right now I'm more interested in exercising my taste
in men.  Kiss me again."

"First things first, my love." I got up and went over to the closet to
fetch a couple of towels, which I spread out on the bed.  "This way,
nobody has to sleep in a wet spot."

"You really *do* think of everything," she observed dryly, moving onto
the towels.  "Now come back here." I complied, stretching out beside
her and enfolding her in my arms.  We kissed again, a long, slow,
smoldering kiss, exploring each other's mouths, using every possible
combination of lips and teeth and tongues.  After a while I broke off
to kiss the rest of her face: forehead, eyelids, cheeks, chin, the
line of her jaw and the hollow of her throat.  I blew lightly in her
ear and she giggled, then turned her head to catch my mouth with hers
again.

"Surely you've at least done this before," I said, as we stopped for
breath.  "You kiss too well for a beginner."

"Oh, sure--stage kisses," she said, with a hint of distaste.  "But
you're the first man I've ever kissed for real.  It's wonderful...."

"It is," I agreed.  "*You're* wonderful." I stroked her cheek, letting
my fingers trail down along her neck until they reached her breast. 
She lay back and closed her eyes, savoring the sensation as I traced a
lazy spiral, closing in at last to tweak her nipple briefly between
two fingers.  She inhaled sharply as I let it slip free.  "Feels
good?" I asked.  She nodded quickly.  "Good.  Now, you'll have to help
me for a moment...." I sat up, and took the hem of her t-shirt in my
hands.  Taking her cue, she arched her back so that I could slide it
up her body.  When it was around her shoulders, I slid one hand under
her and lifted her partway off the mattress so that I could get it
over her head and raised arms.  Then I paused to admire what I had
uncovered: small but shapely breasts, capped by dark little nipples
that contrasted strongly with her creamy skin; taut, smooth belly
between her ribs and hip bones, with a perfect oval navel in the
center; silk panties the same dark wine red as the dress she had been
wearing.  "Behold, thou art fair, my love," I murmured, "Behold, thou
art fair." I cupped her breasts lightly in my hands and brushed my
thumbs over her nipples, making them crinkle and stand at attention. 
She smiled, eyes still shut, as I continued to tease and caress her. 
After a few moments, I paused to strip off my own shirt, then
stretched out to embrace and kiss her once again, grasping her
shoulder blades so that her breasts were pressed against my own bare
chest.  She raised her leg, pointing her toes at the ceiling for a
moment in a ballet lift, then hooked it over my waist, pulling me
closer so that the bulge of my cock pressed against her mons and I
could feel the heat of her loins through my sweatpants.

I rolled on top of her, supporting most of my weight on my knees and
elbows so as to let her breathe.  Then, ever so slowly, I moved down
her body, kissing my way along her throat and collarbones to her
breasts.  As I had with my fingers before, I now traced spirals with
my tongue, licking up and down each breast, catching her nipples
lightly between my teeth and flicking my tongue back and forth over
them.  Then I sucked in as much of her left breast as would fit in my
mouth; she gasped and her fingers entwined with my hair.  "You have
lovely tits," I said, as I let go.

"I thought men preferred big ones," she teased.

"Mm-mm," I replied, my mouth momentarily full of her other breast. 
"Anything more than a handful is superfluous.  Yours are the perfect
size." I squeezed them lightly while kissing the valley between them,
then moved downward again.  I kept fondling her breasts while kissing
her belly and blowing in her navel, which made her giggle; at last, I
reached the lacy waistband of her panties.  "Fancy," I commented.  "I
wouldn't have figured you for the Victoria's Secret type."

"That dress tends to ride up a bit when I dance," she replied.  "If
what I'm wearing under it is the same color, it's less noticeable. 
Besides, they're comfortable."

"They're very sexy," I said, stroking my finger lightly along the
cleft between her thighs.  "But they're in the way." I got up onto my
knees and hooked my thumbs in the waistband; she arched her hips, and
I slid the silk panties slowly down over her thighs.  Once they were
past her knees, she quickly pulled her feet free of them; I dropped
them on the floor beside our t-shirts.

Natalie's pubic hair formed a small, dark triangle, which only partly
covered her mons.  Her outer lips were parted slightly from arousal,
and the pink folds of her inner ones peeked out from between them. 
"Such a pretty thing," I said, admiring her vulva.  "Like an orchid or
a lily."

"Georgia O'Keefe," she murmured, glancing at one of the paintings on
my wall.

"Georgia had it exactly right; flowers are a plant's genitalia."

"But they smell nicer," she said, ruefully.

"I beg to differ." I inhaled deeply.  Natalie's scent was subtle,
complicated, like a good wine.  There was the sweet, heady smell of
musk, and the clean smell of the soap she had used in the shower, and
something else, a light, almost floral aroma which I couldn't place.

I started off lightly, touching only the hair at first, then gently
stroking her mons and inner thighs.  After a minute or two of this,
she spread her legs wide and brought her knees up, inviting me in
toward her center.  I ran one finger around the outside of her vulva,
brushing the thin, sensitive skin between her thighs and labia. 
Moving down, her pubic hair grew sparser and wispy, ending above the
entrance to her vagina.  I could see a few droplets of moisture at the
bottom of her slit, morning dew on that fairest of flowers.  I pressed
there, lightly, so that the tip of my finger slipped in between her
outer lips.  She was already very wet; her inner lips felt silky,
nearly frictionless, as I stroked my finger up one side and down the
other.  She inhaled sharply as I passed her clit, careful not to touch
it directly just yet.  I laid my other hand on her mound, massaging it
lightly, as my fingertip reached her vagina and slipped a little way
inside.  Once it was thoroughly wet with her natural lubricant, I drew
it ever so slowly upward, parting her inner lips and brushing over her
clitoral hood, lifting it so that I could see the tiny pink pearl
beneath.  A tremor ran through her body as the cool air touched her
most sensitive spot, and her hands moved to her breasts, cupping and
stroking them as I had done earlier.

Continuing to tease her sex with my left hand, I moved my right hand
and mouth back up her body; she took her hands from her breasts and
ruffled my hair as I resumed playing with her nipples.  Moving up
more, I kissed her again as my index finger sank into her vagina, and
my thumb massaged her clit.  Her kiss was frenzied, urgent, and she
moaned softly.  My fingertip found the odd, roughened pad on the roof
of her vagina; I pressed against it, simultaneously flicking my
thumbnail over her clit, and she came, hugging me convulsively and
keening into my mouth.

As she relaxed, every muscle in her body going soft and limp, I
withdrew my hand and licked my index finger, savoring the taste of
her.

"Like that?" I asked.

"Mm-hmm," she said, nestling into my embrace.

"Would you like to do it again?"

"Mm-hmm," she said again.

"All right." I gently disengaged my arms and moved down to lie between
her legs.  Again, I started out by teasing her mons and thighs, this
time with the soft, tickly hair of my beard.  Then I began to lick
her, lapping up and down her outer lips before parting them with my
fingers and sliding my tongue between them.

When she was again quivering with arousal, I pushed my tongue into her
vagina; her hips bucked as I slid it in and out several times.  Then I
ran it up her slit and began licking her clitoris, while again teasing
her G-spot with my finger.  I switched back and forth a couple of
times, always with my fingers in one place and my tongue in the other;
then I caught her clit between my lips, sucked on it hard, and tapped
it with the tip of my tongue.  Her second orgasm was longer and louder
than the first, and after it ended she remained aroused, rubbing and
squeezing her breasts.

"Now?" I asked.

She opened her eyes, gazing at me though a haze of passion, and said,
"Now."

I quickly got out of my sweat pants.  My cock had been hard as steel
for over an hour now.  Natalie stared at it curiously.  "How big?" she
asked.

"That's an impertinent question," I teased, stroking it over her mons.
 "How big do you think?"

She raised herself on her elbows for a closer look.  "Seven inches?"

"Could be.  It's usually about six and a half, but just now,
considering all we've been doing in the last hour, it probably is
closer to seven." I moved over so that I could reach the top drawer of
my night table; opening it, I pulled out a condom and a little tube of
K-Y jelly.

"Thank you," she said.

"I was wondering when you were going to ask," I told her, as I
extracted the rubber from its package and put a drop of the lubricant
inside the tip.

"You're the man who thinks of everything," she replied.  "I knew you'd
have protection."

"Good call," I said.  "Would you care to do the honors?"

She took the condom and placed it over the head of my cock, careful
not to lose the lubricant inside; then she rolled it very slowly down
the shaft.  It twitched a bit at the touch of her hands, which made us
both smile.  "Down, boy," she admonished.  "I'm not finished with you
yet."

"Don't worry about that," I told her.  "I have pretty good control." I
gave her a long kiss as she finished putting the condom on me, then
knelt between her legs.  I put a bit more of the lubricant in the palm
of my hand and smoothed it up and down the length of my cock.  She
closed her eyes as I probed gently at her vulva with the tip, rubbing
it up and down between her clit and her vagina.  At last, I pressed
firmly and steadily against her entrance; her lips spread and engulfed
the head of my cock, and she gave a little cry as her hymen tore.  I
looked at her face; she was biting her lip, and there were tears in
her eyes.  "You okay?" I asked, concerned.

She nodded quickly.  "It hurts a bit... but it feels good, too.  I
want more of it."

"Okay," I said.  Slowly, a millimeter at a time, I penetrated her. 
Her vagina was warm and tight, and I could feel her inner muscles
twitching around my cock.  When it was almost entirely inside her, I
carefully moved my knees back and stretched out on top of her, my legs
pressing hers farther apart, my fingers entwining with hers to pin her
arms to the bed.  Our tongues met and dueled for a moment.  Then I
released her hands and put my weight on my elbows so that she could
breathe easily, and began to move.  She wrapped her arms around my
shoulders, her legs around my waist, and locked eyes with me.  I
varied the rhythm: long, slow strokes that withdrew all but the head
of my cock and drove it back in to the hilt, then shorter, faster
ones, then a pause with my shaft buried in her as deep as it could go,
during which I kissed her and rocked my pubic bone back and forth
against her clit.  Then I started the cycle over again, using one hand
to support my weight while the other caressed her face and breasts. 
After about ten minutes of this, Natalie's breathing grew quick and
ragged; I reached down and squeezed her firm little bottom with both
hands, and as I rubbed up against her clit she came again.  The
rippling spasms in her vagina triggered my own orgasm; it pulsed along
my shaft, filling the condom almost to its base, while my ears rang
and sparks danced before my eyes.

We lay there for a couple of minutes, both completely spent, letting
ourselves drift slowly back to reality from the high place to which we
had flown.  At length I pulled out of her, holding the base of the
condom carefully so as not to let any semen escape.  I stood up, then
paused, leaning down to kiss her.  "I'll be right back, sweetheart," I
whispered, and walked across the hall to the bathroom.  There I
disposed of the condom, quickly cleaned myself off, and returned with
a warm, wet washcloth and a towel, with which I proceeded to gently
clean and dry Natalie's sex.

By now it was getting close to 3:00 AM, and exhaustion was finally
catching up with me.  Natalie was half-asleep already, curled on her
side with her eyes closed and that familiar, angelic smile on her
lips.  I rummaged in a drawer and found an old pair of silk boxers to
wear to bed.  Much as I would have liked sleeping nude, I remembered a
couple of occasions when Andi and I had managed to start having sex
before we were fully awake.  Pleasant memories, but Andi had been on
the pill, and Natalie was not; I wouldn't risk getting her pregnant.

Satisfied that nothing serious could happen between us without a
conscious effort on my part, I lay down behind her, turned out the
light, and pulled the sheets up over us both.  She cuddled up to me in
a comfortable spoon.  I put my arms around her, and she murmured,
"Thanks, Sam.  For everything."

"Thank you," I whispered back, kissing the top of her head.  "You made
it all worthwhile."

"Y're welcome," she said, her voice slurring a little as she drifted
off.  "G'night."

"Good night, Natalie my love."

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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