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Message-ID: <31353asstr$994687801@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: fader2011@my-deja.com (Jacques LeBlanc)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 9 Jul 2001 05:19:02 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} RP: Reciprocity 2 (M/f, teen, celeb, cons, rom, first) by Jacques LeBlanc
Date: Mon,  9 Jul 2001 10:10:01 -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 articles about 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, copy 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 2: Interlude with Waffles
by Jacques LeBlanc
(M/f, teen, celeb, cons, rom)

I woke to see sunlight slanting through the Venetian blinds on my
bedroom window.  Natalie still slept; my left arm rested across her
lovely little breasts, and she clasped it against her body like a
security blanket.  *But I give her much more security than a blanket,*
I thought, feeling a warm glow of pride for my exploits of the
previous night.  I got up on my elbow so that I could see her face,
moving carefully so as not to wake her, and recalled a truth I had
learned years before: there is no sight in the universe more beautiful
than your lover's face in repose, bathed in the golden light of
morning.  *Especially this lover,* I thought.  I still couldn't quite
believe my luck.  In the previous twenty-four hours, I had completed
the mission to which I had devoted the last two years of my life,
ending the lives of the white-supremacist thugs who had gunned down my
parents and made a snuff video of my fiancee.  In the process, I had
rescued their latest intended victim: the stunningly beautiful young
actress and model Natalie Portman.  *Natalie Levine,* I reminded
myself, and smiled.  Telling me her real name had been her first act
of trust; her last had been the willing surrender of her virginity. 
*Which she may well regret, once she's back in her normal life and has
time to think about all of this.*  My smile vanished.  *I just hope
she doesn't resent me for accepting her offer.  I don't want her hurt,
and I don't want her to hurt me, either; she can make a whole hell of
a lot of trouble for me, if she wants to.*

Natalie interrupted my musings by stirring in her sleep, rolling
partway onto her back so that her shoulder pressed against my chest
and her face turned toward the ceiling.  The temptation was
irresistible: I lowered my head and kissed her, a feather-light brush
of my lips over hers.  She responded by parting her lips slightly, and
I moistened them with the tip of my tongue.  In a moment she was
kissing me in earnest, slow and deep with tongues entwining, while she
turned the rest of the way onto her back.  After we stopped, I watched
a slow smile light up her face, spreading from her mouth up to her
eyes, which finally fluttered open.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," I said.

"Good morning, my Prince," she replied.  "And how dost thou this fair
spring morning?"

I tried for a moment to frame a faux-medieval answer, then gave it up
as a bad job.  "Better than I've ever been since... since my loss. 
I've been dead for two years, Natalie, and it feels *great* to be
alive again.  And you know what?  It wasn't taking out the Shadows
that did that for me.  It was you.  As I said last night, you made it
all worth while."

"I'm glad.  Because *you* made it worthwhile being kidnapped, Sam.  I
know this sounds crazy, but I think I'm actually glad that those
scumbags chose me.  You turned my nightmare into a fairy-tale, and
gave me the most beautiful, perfect experience I've ever had."

A snatch of melody from an old Danny Kaye movie surfaced in my head,
and I felt so exuberant I just had to sing: "What starts like a scary
tale/Ends like a fairy-tale/And life couldn't possibly--not even
probably--life couldn't possibly better be!"

Once again, I was pleasantly surprised by Natalie's taste in
entertainment.  "*The Court Jester,*" she said.  "I love that movie,
and the song is exactly right.  I have a couple of friends that've
slept with their boyfriends, you know, and both of them said that the
first time was disappointing--first it hurt, and then it was over just
when they were starting to like it.  My first time was better than I
ever could have imagined.  Nothing can ever take that away from me,
and I owe it to you."  She wrapped her arms around me and drew me in
for another long kiss.

"I can't help wondering, though," I said after we stopped, "why did
you do it?  I mean, you were the girl that wasn't going to be asked to
the prom because you'd made it clear to the guys that you wouldn't
make out with them afterwards.  Okay, so you did get asked, but you
went out of your way to tell me that the guy was just a friend.  Not
to sound ungrateful, but I'm curious: what made you change your mind?"

She gave me a somewhat incredulous look.  "Isn't it obvious?  Sam, I
had *six hours* in that van to resign myself to the fact that my first
experience with sex was going to be a gang rape that I'd be lucky to
survive--wouldn't have survived, as it turned out.  All the way, they
kept pinching and poking and pawing at me, and laughing about how much
'fun' they were going to have when they got home...."  Her voice
caught.

I hugged her hard and said, "It's all right, sweetheart.  You don't
have to talk about it if you don't want to; don't get all
*verklempt.*"

The Yiddish word made her smile.  "I'm okay.  Anyway, I started to
wish that I'd made love before.  I was afraid that if I survived what
they were going to do to me I'd be scarred for life, never be able to
have a normal relationship... and I thought, if only I had some good
memories about sex, maybe I could take my mind away and concentrate on
that and what they were doing to my body wouldn't matter so much.  And
then we were there, and it was starting to happen, and to make it
worse they were going to *film* it all--you must know how I feel about
doing nude scenes in movies, I've turned down roles because of that...
and then it was *over,* just like that, they were dead, and there was
this gentle voice telling me everything was going to be all right, and
gentle hands taking off the tape and the ropes.  You were so good to
me, Sam, do you realize that?  I think you're one of the kindest
people I've ever met.  Maybe it stands out more because you're also
capable of violence... but even in that, you weren't cruel.  I could
hear what happened, even though I couldn't see it; they were all dead
in less than a minute.  I think I'm a pretty nice, sensitive person,
but by the time I got to that warehouse I was ready to burn those
bastards at the stake, and if someone did to my family what they did
to yours, well...."

"I used to feel that way, Natalie," I admitted.  "At first I wanted to
hang the White Shadows by their toes and skin them alive.  But after a
while, I decided they just weren't worth it.  Friedrich Nietzsche said
that whoever battles monsters must take care not to become one.  A lot
of what Nietzsche said may have been crazy, but that particular
comment made a lot of sense to me.  If I hurt them they way they'd
hurt me, that would mean I was no better than they were.  They still
had to die, Natalie, but not so I could feel better for it, even
though I was pretty sure I would--and I do, actually.  But the real
reason they had to die was to stop them from doing to others what they
did to my family.  Did I call it revenge last night?  A better term
might be 'pest control.'  What matters isn't how quickly or slowly
they died, or even whether they knew why; what matters is that they're
gone, and the world is a better place because of it."

"You know, until yesterday I don't think I could ever have agreed with
a statement like that... that the world is better for somebody's
death.  But after hearing about what they've done, and what they meant
to do to me... you're right, it's good that they're dead."

"You had doubts?"

"I didn't think about them, last night.  I was just thinking about how
good it was to be alive.  And to have a choice about where and when
and with whom I would get rid of my virginity--I started to think of
it as a burden during that awful ride in the van.  And then there you
were, Sam, and I'd never met anyone like you... you were like James
Bond, or like I told my dad, a modern knight-errant.  And I thought
maybe you would expect me to go to bed with you, as a reward, and I
was all ready to put up a token resistance and then let it happen, but
you were a perfect gentleman.  And that just made you even more
attractive, but I wasn't sure how to approach you, so I just went to
bed and figured I'd work it out later.  After all, maybe it was
foolish, wanting to throw myself at somebody I'd only just met, even
if he did save my life.  But then I had this *dream,* Sam... I
remember it now, some of it: I was back in the van, only it wasn't a
van, it was a coffin, and there were these cold, dead hands touching
me everywhere, and voices whispering...."  She shuddered.  "I woke up
and tried to calm down and couldn't, so I came to you.  And you made
it all right; sitting there with you, with your arm around me, felt as
safe as sitting with my parents in my own living room.  I think that's
when I realized that it wasn't just attraction, I was falling in love
with you--falling fast without a parachute, but that was okay if only
you would catch me.  And I knew something else, Sam... if I didn't act
right then, there was a good chance that you would drive me home this
morning, say goodbye, and catch the next flight to Israel... and I
would never see you again."

"So you seduced me," I said, smiling at her.

She looked surprised at that description.  "Yeah... yeah, I guess I
did.  Not that you were that hard to seduce...."

"Natalie, love, I doubt you'll ever find out whether a man you want is
hard to seduce or not; you're simply irresistible."

"You think so?"

"I know so.  For all my training, for all my self-discipline, I could
no more have told you 'no' last night than I could have grown wings
and flown away."

"And what about this morning?"  she asked, smiling mischievously.

I smiled back.  "You want an encore performance?"

"What better way to start the day?"  She raised herself on one elbow,
then sank back down with a grimace.  "Ow.  I should have done some
stretching exercises after all those hours lying in one position in
that blasted van... I'm sore all over."

"Ah.  Our, um... aerobics might have something to do with that, too. 
But here, let me see if I can help.  Just lie flat on your stomach and
relax."

"Okay."  She complied, while I got a bottle of sandalwood-scented oil
from my night table drawer.  I got up on my knees, straddling her
waist, and poured a little of the oil into the palm of one hand,
rubbing it between my hands to warm it.  Then I began massaging her
neck and shoulders, feeling for the places where muscles knotted up
and slowly working the tension out of them.  I worked my way gradually
down from her shoulders to the small of her back, alternating between
long strokes with the heels of my hands, and kneading with the tips of
my fingers.  "How's that?"  I asked.  "More pressure, or less, or is
this just right?"

Natalie smiled blissfully.  "Just right," she replied.  "Thanks, Sam,
it feels... 'superb,'" she finished, mimicking Willie's father in
*Beautiful Girls.*  I chuckled and applied a bit more oil, then began
working on her lower back with my knuckles.

"It's easy when a girl has a light, slim build, like you," I
commented.  "My first girlfriend, back when I was in college... she
wasn't overweight, exactly, but she was... I suppose stocky is the
best word.  I used to give her backrubs, and she always wanted me to
press down as hard as I could and dig in with my fingers.  After
fifteen minutes of that, my hands would get tired and I'd have to
stop.  But this, I could keep up for hours... as long as you like,
love.

"Well, I do have to get home some time today... and I still want that
'encore performance.'"

"Oh, we still have plenty of time," I replied.  "I said I would drive
you home, but it occurs to me that we could catch the Southwest
Airlines shuttle from BWI to LaGuardia and save about three hours of
travel time."

Natalie's expression brightened.  "Oh!  Well, in that case, how about
a full body massage?"

"Good thought," I replied, shifting down a bit so that I could start
working on her lovely little bottom.  "This reminds me of a word game
Andi invented," I said after a moment.  "The idea was to come up with
alliterative variants on 'beautiful bottom.'  You can't use the same
first letter twice, and the last person who can think of one wins.

Natalie grinned at me over her shoulder.  "Okay, you first," she said.

"Admirable ass."

She giggled.  "All right, I have one: fabulous fanny."

"Not bad.  Shall we say the winner gets to be on top?"

"Sounds fair to me.  It's your turn."

"Delightful derriere," I said, giving hers a squeeze.

"Ooh, good one.  All right, let me see... terrific tush."

"Perfect posterior."

"You come up with all the best ones," she grumbled.

"I've played before, and besides, I've got the inspiration right in
front of me," I replied.  "But what matters is who gets the last one. 
Your turn."

"Okay.  Splendid seat."

"Cute can."

"Respectable rear."

I laughed at that.  "Some people might not call it very respectable
just now... but all right.  Excellent end.  And I believe that's the
last one; I don't recall any other euphemisms for 'bottom' that don't
start with a letter we've already used.  You can still be on top if
you want, though."

"No, wait a minute, I've got one: 'wonderful wump.'"

"Oh!  I never thought of using that Elmer Fudd accent to add another
letter... okay, you win."  I moved down a little further, massaging
the backs of her thighs now, as well as continuing to work
intermittently on her lower back and buttocks.  She closed her eyes
and relaxed as I gradually worked my way down over her calves,
finishing up with a thorough foot massage.  After about fifteen
minutes of that, I paused and kissed her right heel.  She curled her
toes and made a purring sound.  I leaned down and kissed the hollow of
her right knee, then the swell of her left buttock, the small of her
back, the tip of her right shoulder blade, and the nape of her neck. 
Then I pursed my lips and blew a thin stream of air over her ear.  She
chuckled softly.

"You want me to turn over now?"  she asked.

"Well, you did say 'full body massage,'" I replied.  Natalie
obligingly rolled onto her back.  I straddled her again and began to
rub her shoulders and upper arms.  After a couple of minutes of that,
I moved my attentions to her breasts.  Her areolae darkened and
crinkled, and her nipples sprang erect, popping up between my fingers
as I massaged the firm-soft flesh of her bosom.  I lingered there for
quite a while before moving down to her smooth belly, rubbing it with
a light, circular motion, spiraling out from her navel until I crossed
her mons.  Mischievously, I slipped one finger between her thighs and
ran it down the length of her slit.

She caught my wrist and said, "Not yet.  It's my turn."  I nodded and
got off her, lying face-down so that she could return the massage. 
Her delicate looking fingers proved surprisingly strong as she
followed the same sequence I had with her, working gradually from my
neck down to my feet and kissing her way back up before asking me to
turn over.  When she straddled me again, working her fingers into the
flat planes of my pectorals, I could feel her vulva pressing against
my stomach.  The sensation made my cock rise and stand at attention; I
contracted the Kegel muscles at the base, making it tap against her
tailbone.  She raised her eyebrows, and I said, "About that
encore...."

"Okay... rubbers are in here, right?"  She climbed off and reached for
the night table.

"Yah.  And the massage oil goes back in there, too, if you don't
mind...."

She put it away, then produced a condom and the K-Y.  "You want a bit
of this on the inside, right?"  she asked.  I nodded.  She tore open
the packet, put a drop of the jelly into the tip of the condom, and
carefully rolled it onto my straining cock.  Then, instead of applying
more K-Y to the outside, she straddled my thighs and inched herself up
my body, pushing the shaft of my cock back against my stomach and
letting her vulva slide up it, wetting it with her own lubricant. 
When she reached the tip, she raised herself on her knees, took it in
her hand, and lined it up with her vagina; then she sank ever so
slowly back down, impaling herself on me.

A tremor ran up my spine, and I had to fight for a moment to keep my
control; I wanted this to last as long as possible.  "Wow," I gasped,
as the edge receded.  "You learn fast, sweetheart.  If I didn't know
first- hand that you were a virgin twelve hours ago, I'd think you'd
been taking an AP course in applied sensuality."

She grinned and leaned forward, her hair falling like a curtain to one
side of her face, and placed her hands on my shoulders.  Her clit
pressed against my pubic bone, and her inner muscles fluttered around
my cock.  "You like this?"  she asked, breathily.

"That's the understatement of the year, love.  You're magnificent." 
She smiled at the compliment, then straightened up and began moving up
and down, finding her rhythm on me.  I reached up and cupped her
breasts, stroking my thumbs over her nipples.  She shut her eyes and
threw her head and shoulders back, losing herself in the sensations of
our love making.

Perhaps because I had not "warmed her up" with oral sex this time,
Natalie's climax was a long time coming, and it took every ounce of my
considerable willpower to hold off my own orgasm as she slowly climbed
toward hers.  Finally, she stiffened and began keening, her vagina
clenching frantically around my cock.  As it had last night, her
orgasm triggered mine, an electric surge of pleasure that started in
my loins and crackled through my nervous system, making my whole body
tingle.  As it subsided, I sat up and hugged Natalie, and she slumped
against my chest.  I crossed my legs tailor-fashion, she wrapped hers
around my waist, and we sat there for a while as our strength
returned.  At length, my softening cock slipped out of her with an
audible plop.  I chuckled, and she raised her head from my shoulder
and smiled at me, our faces just inches apart.  "That was even better
than the first time," she said.

"For me as well," I replied.  "You're an even better lover than you
are an actress--and you know I love your movies."

"Yeah."  She tilted her head to one side and kissed me, a slow, sweet
kiss that warmed the fading afterglow of our passion.  I thought for a
moment of starting again, but decided that if we did that we might
never get out of bed--and I *had* promised that I would take her home
today.  When the kiss broke, I asked, "Would you like to take a
shower?"

"Together, you mean?"

"Naturally; no reason to waste water."

She grinned at me.  "Yeah, I'd like that a lot... although I'm not
sure that the two of us showering together will use any less water
than we would separately."

"Perhaps not," I allowed.  "But it's certainly more fun."  I
disengaged myself from her and stood up; then she held out her hands,
and I took them in mine and pulled her to her feet and into another
lingering hug and kiss.

"Sam?"  Natalie asked somewhat diffidently when we stopped.  "Do you
mind if I, um, use the bathroom alone before we shower?"

"Not at all, sweetheart; just because we're lovers doesn't mean we
can't have privacy when we want it.  Take as long as you need."

"Thanks, I'll just be a minute."  She vanished into the bathroom.  I
took the opportunity to dispose of the condom and wipe off most of the
K-Y and semen with a couple of Kleenex.

When Natalie opened the door again, I said, "I need to do the same. 
You can wait outside if you like, or stay and get the water running."

"I guess I don't mind if you don't," she said.  She turned and went to
the tub while I stepped to the toilet and emptied my bladder.

"It's probably easier for guys," I observed as I flushed.  "We can
face the wall while doing our business, and we're used to urinals in
our public restrooms."  Natalie had the water going now, and was
holding her hand under the spigot to adjust the temperature before
turning on the shower.

I should mention that my bathroom is not what you would typically
expect in a farm house; I expanded it after I moved in, installing a
whirlpool tub with glass doors and an adjustable shower head.  As I
had told Natalie the night before, I like to live comfortably.  "You
know," I said, "It might be a good idea to take a bath instead of a
shower; soaking in the tub helps get the massage oil out of your
pores."

"Good thinking," she replied, raising the little switch that plugged
the drain, and turning up the faucets so that the tub would fill
faster.  Even with the water on full blast, it was several minutes
before we climbed in.  I turned on the whirlpool pump and then
stretched out with Natalie in my lap, leaning back on my chest as I
rested against the back of the tub.  For a few minutes we just lay
there, luxuriating in the hot, swirling water.  Then I picked up the
soap and washcloth and proceeded to wash Natalie's breasts and
shoulders, delighting in the slick warmth of her wet skin under my
hands.  She sat up, allowing me to do her back as well.  When that was
done she raised one arm and then the other, then stood up so that I
could wash her belly, thighs, and bottom, and finally sat back down
and lifted one leg at a time so that I could get to her calves and her
dainty little feet.  When I had thoroughly soaped her entire body, she
took the soap and the cloth and did the same for me.  "Careful with
that," I said, as she ran soapy fingers over my semi-erect cock. 
"It's loaded."  She laughed and stroked it a couple of times, until I
reminded her that we didn't have all day.

Once we had finished washing each other's bodies, I got the shampoo
and spent several minutes working it into her scalp--another form of
massage.  Again, she returned the favor.  Finally, we drained the tub,
stood up, and turned the shower on to rinse off the shampoo and soapy
bath water, embracing and kissing passionately under the spray.  I got
out first, picked up a towel and held it out so that Natalie could
step into it, and we dried each other, after which I carefully brushed
out her silky brown hair.

"You really know how to make a girl feel appreciated, Sam," she said,
as I put the brush away.

"Thank you," I replied.  "It's nice to know that I haven't lost my
touch in two years."

"Definitely not."  She thought of something then that made her pause;
she gave me an appraising look, then asked, "Has it really been two
years?  I mean, I don't want to be nosy, but well... you did have
condoms and massage oil in your bedside drawer...."

I took a long moment before answering, wondering how she would take
the truth.  Finally I said, "Two years since I had a real lover,
Natalie; two years since it was anything more than another deception,
another piece of the man I was pretending to be.  No, I haven't been
entirely celibate; in the circles I've been moving in, that would have
been suspicious.  I've had a few one-night stands and weekend
flings... I've used up condoms, and massage oil, and shared baths too.
 But I haven't brushed a girl's hair since Andi was killed.  It's
funny, the things we hang onto; that little ritual, trivial as it
might seem, was very special for us, and I've waited for someone I
really cared about to share it with.  I hope that Andi would have
approved of my choice."

She looked up at me gravely.  "I hope so too, Sam.  She must have been
quite a girl; I wish I could have met her."

I nodded.  "She would have liked that.  She loved your first two
movies as much as I did."  I decided not to mention that Andi had been
bisexual, at least in theory, and had been as taken with young Natalie
as I had; I wasn't sure how she would take that information.  "But we
can't change the past, Natalie; all we can do is try to make the
future better.  C'mon, lets get dressed and have some breakfast."

We went back to the bedroom.  Natalie picked up her dress and paused,
looking at it.  "This is going to stick out like a sore thumb in the
airport," she said.  "I wish I had something else.  I don't suppose
you'd have anything in the house that would fit me?"

"No," I said, pulling on a t-shirt, "I'm afraid not.  And you're
right, that would attract an awful lot of attention.  Tell you what,
just put this on for now"--I handed her a light terrycloth robe from
the closet-- "and I'll see what I can come up with after breakfast."

I finished dressing and went to the kitchen, with Natalie in tow. 
There I began pulling ingredients from the cupboards and refrigerator.
 "I was planning to celebrate this morning anyway," I said, as I got
out my blender and began grinding up a mixture of cashews, pecans, and
sunflower seeds.  "This is my father's recipe for waffles.  Have you
ever read *Lord of the Rings?*" She nodded.  "Well, this is the
closest thing you're ever likely to find in real life, both in flavor
and nutrition, to the waybread of the elves."

"Sounds good," she said.  "I don't think I've ever had nut waffles
before."

"Then you're in for a treat," I replied.  I busied myself with
blending other ingredients, whipping egg-whites, and warming up the
waffle iron.  After watching me for a couple of minutes, Natalie asked
whether there was anything she could do.  "Well," I said, "If you'd
like coffee with breakfast, you could get that going.  There's ground
coffee in a can in the freezer, and the filters are in the cupboard
above the coffee machine.  She nodded and set to work; by the time I
had finished mixing the waffle batter she had the coffee maker
bubbling away cheerfully, and the first cups of coffee were ready
shortly before the first waffle.  I added cream and sugar sparingly;
Natalie used somewhat more, then  cautiously raised her mug and took a
sip.  "This is good," she said, after a moment.  She took another sip,
and her face brightened.  "This is really good."

I grinned.  "It's Jamaica Blue Mountain.  I told you I like to live
well."

"You weren't kidding."  Then she got that appraising look again. 
"I've been wondering, Sam--how did the son of an FBI agent and a woman
who worked for the Anti-Defamation League come to be so well-off?  If
you don't mind my asking...."

"Not at all.  My paternal grandmother's maiden name was 'Rothschild,'
with--well, if not *all* that that name implies, then certainly a lot
of it.  My father started playing the stock market the day after his
Bar Mitzvah.  He was a pretty canny investor, and in the last few
years before he died he was riding the largest, longest bull market in
history; I inherited an estate worth just over nine million dollars. 
A good bit of it went into my training in Israel, of course, and more
of it went to buy this place, and a couple of safehouses I can run to
if things get hot.  Most of what's left is invested in various stocks
and bonds where it earns a comfortable income, or socked away in
numbered accounts for emergencies.  I also used some of it to work my
way into the confidences of the white supremacists; groups like that
generally welcome anyone who makes large donations to the cause...." 
She looked up at me sharply, and I suddenly felt that I had said too
much.  Fortunately, the waffle iron buzzed, allowing me to change the
subject gracefully before we could get into a discussion of the
ethical implications of those donations.  I wasn't sure what Natalie
had made of that revelation, but I had enough qualms of my own that I
preferred not to have it as topic of breakfast conversation.  "What
kind of syrup do you like?  I've got maple, raspberry, and Maine
blueberry."

"I like all of them," Natalie replied.  "But I'll start with maple."

The waffles, as always, were delicious: light and fluffy, their nutty
flavor making a perfect counterpoint to the sweetness of the various
syrups.  At the first taste Natalie's face lit up; she ate slowly,
savoring each bite, and I took vicarious pleasure in her enjoyment of
my favorite breakfast.  We ate a waffle and a half each, splitting the
first three to come out of the iron.  I made several more, using up
the batter, and put them in the freezer for future meals.

As we loaded the dishwasher, I said, "I think I've got the solution to
your clothing problem.  There's a Wal-mart about ten minutes from
here; we can stop there and pick you up a t-shirt and a pair of
jeans."

"Sounds reasonable," she said.  "What do we say if someone gets nosy?"

"Oh, let's see... um.  What's your middle name?"

"Rose," she replied.

"It suits you.  Okay, you're my cousin Rose from New York, you're
visiting for the week, we went dancing last night right after you
arrived, and your bag with all your clothes got stolen out of the car.
 And if anyone comments on your resemblance to a certain movie star,
you smile and say, 'Yeah, I get that all the time.'"

She grimaced.  "I do, actually; every wise-cracking freshman guy at my
school thinks he's the first one to come up with that joke--'Say, you
look a lot like the girl in the movies, what's her name, Portman? 
Yeah, Natalie Portman.'  I usually just say, 'Gee, I wonder why....'"

"Well, don't say that this time," I said.  "We don't need the kind of
attention that would generate."

"No problem," she said.  "While we're there, maybe we should pick up a
pair of sunglasses, too.  The less of my face people see, the better."

"Good thinking," I replied.  "We'll do that."

Natalie went back to the bedroom to change while I started the
dishwasher running and finished cleaning up the kitchen.  When she
returned she had her dress and heels on again.  "You know, Sam," she
said, "When I put this dress on last night I was expecting to dance. 
I know we don't have a lot of time, but... one song?"

"Sure," I said.  "I believe you mentioned 'Only the Good Die Young'
last night...."

"And you said you prefer to listen to it when you can dance to it. 
Well, now's the time."

"'This is the time to remember, 'cause it will not last forever?' 
That's a different song...."  She glared at me, and I said, "Okay,
okay.  This way."  I showed her into the den, where I kept my
television, stereo, and other electronic amusements.  Instead of the
carpeting I had in the rest of the house, this room had a wood parquet
floor and a Persian rug.  I moved a coffee table to one side of the
room, rolled the rug up and pushed it to the other side, leaving an
expanse of bare wood suitable for dancing.  I had brought my CD case
in from the car the night before; now I extracted "The Stranger" and
slipped it into the disc changer.  I faced Natalie in the center of
the room and assumed closed dance position, my left hand clasping her
right, my right hand behind her, holding the remote control for the
changer.  I queued up track six, hit "play," then tossed the remote
onto the couch and rested my hand against Natalie's shoulder blade.

The bright, jaunty piano chords that open "Only the Good Die Young"
never fail to get my blood up and my feet tapping.  I took a moment to
catch the rhythm, then began to dance the basic step of East Coast
Swing, triple step, triple-step, rock-step, triple-step, triple-step,
rock- step....  As the lyrics began, I sang along, changing a few
words to suit the occasion: "Come out, Natalie, don't let me wait,/You
nice Jewish girls start much too late--"

Natalie replied in her sweet soprano: "Ah, but sooner or later it
comes down to fate./ You might as well be the one...."

"They showed you a Torah and told you to pray,/They built you a temple
and locked you away./Ah, but they never told you the price that you
pay-- "

"The things that I might have done--"

"And only the good die young!"  We finished the verse in unison.  I
lifted my left hand and she spun under it, finishing in open dance
position.  I stepped forward and left, continuing the simplest East
Coast Swing sequence: natural turn, two reverse turns with change of
places, man's reverse hand change turn, and back to closed position. 
Natalie followed perfectly, so I began to improvise, and then we were
both too busy to sing any more.  As Natalie executed a particularly
fast out-and- back turn, I noted that she had been right about the
dress: the skirt had a tendency to flare wide, then twist up around
her waist, so that someone sitting down might well have caught a
glimpse of her underwear.

As the song faded away, I spun her out one last time and stopped,
inclining my head in a token bow and lifting her hand to my lips. 
"Thank you for the dance," I said.

"Thank *you*," Natalie replied, executing a small curtsy.  "That was a
lot of fun.  We'll have to do it again sometime."

"That we will," I agreed.  The next song, "She's Always a Woman,"
began to play, but I lifted the remote and stopped it.  "We really
should get going now.  Besides, there isn't room here to do the
Viennese Waltz, even if I were any good at it."  I picked up the CD
case and walked toward the door, Natalie falling into step beside me.

"Viennese is a hard one," she agreed.  "Beautiful to watch, though,
when the dancers know what they're doing."

"True.  I never quite got the hang of it.  Andi and I took dance
lessons together, but we mostly did American ballroom and swing; I
never really got into international style, though she'd learned some
of it back in England."

"I know some international, but I'm better at American.  It's a good
thing for an actress to know how to do; you never know when a role
might come up that requires you to dance, and besides, it's a lot of
fun."  We paused on the front porch while I locked the door and
activated the house's security system.

"It's another thing I've missed these past two years," I said.  "I
still go out dancing once in a while, but not on a regular basis,
never too close to where I live, and never at the same place twice;
it's another thing that wouldn't fit in with my neo-Nazi persona.  Ted
Baker.  God, I hate that bastard, even if he is just a figment of my
imagination.  Erasing him from my life is going to be almost as
satisfying as taking out the White Shadows.  Which reminds me, I think
I've figured out how to solve my legal problems."  I opened the car
door for her.

"Oh?"  she said, as she got into the car.  "What's the plan?"

"One moment."  I walked around to the driver's side and got in. 
"After I take you home, I will be going to Israel--but not
permanently, the way I originally planned," I said, as I started the
car.  "Once I'm there, I'm going to get in touch with a good lawyer--I
know of several around the Baltimore area--and have him contact the
local District Attorney's office with an offer to close the cases on
the Goldberg-Braithewaite murders and the killings in the warehouse
last night, and give them two years worth of inside information about
the white supremacist movement in the mid- Atlantic region--including
the distribution network for the White Shadows' snuff films.  All they
have to do in return is grant immunity from prosecution to one
vigilante whom they would have no hope of catching anyway, and who
would be nearly impossible to convict if they did, since he killed his
targets during a hostage situation."  I wouldn't mention Curtis Byron,
of course, to her or anybody else; if all went well, his apparent
suicide would never be connected to me.

"It makes sense," Natalie said.  "Why should they go after you when
they could be going after the Nazis?"

"Exactly.  If I went to trial, I could become a hero to all the
minorities the Shadows targeted--and their victims have included
blacks, Hispanics, Jews, and at least one Korean girl.  No D.A.  with
any political ambition is going to want to piss off all of those
groups--not to mention your fans.

She grinned at that.  "Right.  If they put you on trial, I'll get all
the *Star Wars* fans in Maryland to come and demonstrate for your
release.

I laughed.  "Now there's a prosecutor's nightmare.  The only thing
that could make it better is having some neo-Nazis and Klansmen
outside praising the D.A.  and demanding my execution--which isn't too
unlikely, either.  Anyway, I won't set foot back in this country
without immunity.  I won't let my lawyer know where in Israel I am, or
what name I'm using there, either; if the D.A.  doesn't want to give
me immunity, I wish him luck trying to persuade the Israelis to locate
and extradite a dead man."

"Like you said, you're the man who thinks of everything.  It sounds
like you've got all the bases covered."

"I certainly hope so," I said.  "I'd love to be able to come back to
the U.S.  and get my name back.  I'm sick to death of being Ted Baker,
and I'm not overly fond of Daniel Rothstein, either--that was my name
at the Mossad training camp.  Daniel wasn't evil like Baker, but he
was one cold-blooded S.O.B.  It's been very, very good finding out
that I still have some genuine feelings other than righteous wrath. 
And I have you to thank for that, Natalie."  I reached over and
squeezed her hand.

Natalie gave me a thoughtful look.  "You know," she reflected, "I
always thought that the man I lost my virginity with would be the man
I wanted to spend my life with.  And now that I've done it, more or
less on the spur of the moment, I find that hasn't changed."  She
paused, expectantly.

I wasn't sure I wanted to deal with this just now.  "A preposition is
a terrible word to end a sentence with," I temporized.

She fisted me lightly in the shoulder.  "I believe Winston Churchill
said, 'That is the sort of nonsense up with which I shall not put.' 
Seriously, Sam; you saved my life, and you've been incredibly good to
me since then.  You're my knight in shining armor, and I want you to
be my boyfriend, and maybe someday my husband.  Will you please at
least think about it?"

I took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.  "I'm pretty hard to live
with, Natalie... I'm stubborn, and I'm opinionated, and despite that
kindness you talk about, I can be pretty obtuse about other people's
feelings sometimes.  And I'm an unregenerate carnivore--you
vegetarians can keep the moral high ground, I prefer the view from the
top of the food chain."

She laughed.  "I can deal with that... I'll respect your choices as
long as you respect mine.  My parents aren't vegetarians, and we get
along just fine."

"Okay, but setting that aside for a moment, there are still a lot of
differences between us.  I can be a friend to you, Natalie, and a
lover, and a protector if you should ever need one, and perhaps even a
mentor-- at least if you decide to major in biology.  But I don't know
that I can be a soul-mate--not to you, maybe not to anyone.  Not after
what I've lost.  Yes, it's true that you reawakened feelings I thought
were dead, but that doesn't mean that I'm completely healed, or that I
ever will be.  Do you understand?"

She nodded sympathetically.  "Yeah, I guess I do... but I hope you'll
give yourself a chance.  Maybe not with me, but you're too good a man
to go through life alone.  And if we do stay friends--and all the
rest-- who's to say what might happen?"

"Not I, love; I gave up trying to predict the future a long time ago."

"Okay.  Just promise me one thing: promise me that we'll see each
other again."

"That I will promise, Natalie.  We'll be together again, even if I
have to fly you to Israel.  After that... we'll let nature take its
course.  All right?"

"All right."

"Here we are," I said, pulling into the parking lot at Wal-Mart. 
"Remember our cover."

"Cousin Rose from New York, dressed for dancing, the rest of my
clothes got stolen, right.  And if anyone notices that I look like
that girl from Star Wars, 'Yeah, I get that all the time.'"

"All right, let's go."

 From the way the clerk looked at us, I think she may have suspected
that we were running away together, but in any event she accepted our
explanation for Natalie's dress without comment.  When we left Natalie
was wearing black sneakers, black jeans, a black t-shirt with
intertwined red and white roses on it, and sunglasses, and carrying
her dress in a black backpack.  "You look like a Goth," I observed, as
we walked back to the car.

"Exactly," she said.  "That's never been my style, and it's not an
image anyone would associate with me.  The idea is not to be
recognized, right?"

"Makes sense," I replied.  "It's not the most inconspicuous outfit you
could have chosen, but as long as people who look at you think
'gorgeous Goth girl' and not 'isn't that the girl from Star Wars?,' we
should be okay.

By unspoken agreement, we kept the conversation light on the way to
the airport, talking of books and movies and music.  At some point we
got onto biology, which had been my college major, and Natalie's
favorite subject in high school.  This led to a discussion of the
long-running feud between Stephen Jay Gould and Richard Dawkins, the
two leading modern popularizers of evolutionary theory, which carried
on into the flight to New York.  Like many American biology students,
Natalie had read some of Gould's essays, but knew of Dawkins only from
Gould's criticisms of his ideas.  (Among British students, the reverse
is often true.  Gould is a professor at Harvard, while Dawkins hails
from Oxford, and their rivalry is in some ways a microcosm of the
rivalry between the British and American scientific establishments.) I
explained that while I greatly admire and respect both men, I
generally find Dawkins's arguments more cogent on those subjects about
which they disagree.  By the time we landed Natalie had promised to
read Dawkins's seminal work, "The Selfish Gene," over the summer.  I
looked forward to discussing the ideas in it when next we met--between
sessions of lovemaking, of course.

We rented a car for the drive out to Natalie's house.  She seemed
curiously subdued on the way there; when I asked whether something was
wrong, she replied, "No, I'm just thinking.  It's amazing how much can
change in twenty-four hours.  I mean, since this time yesterday, I've
been kidnapped, come face to face with the most horrible death I can
imagine, been rescued by a man who's supposed to be dead, fallen in
love, lost my virginity, and had a few other interesting new
experiences besides, like a full-body massage and sharing a shower and
nut waffles washed down with Blue Mountain coffee."  She flashed me a
smile.  "Pretty eventful day, don't you think?"

"For both of us, sweetheart, believe me.  I knew that this was going
to be a turning point in my life, but only because it was going to be
the end of the White Shadows--or possibly of me, if the operation went
south on me.  You were as much of a surprise to me as I was to
you--and at least as pleasant."

"I don't know about that," she said.  "I didn't save your life, after
all."

"Not literally, perhaps," I replied.  "But you made me feel alive
again, and I think that's worth as much to me.  There's been no joy in
my life since Andi and my parents were killed, Natalie.  Pleasure,
yes; that's why I spend so much on luxuries like Blue Mountain coffee,
and that sybaritic bathroom.  Pleasure helps fill the void, but in the
end it's a hollow substitute for joy."

"I guess I see what you're saying.  By pleasure you mean something
purely physical, right?  And joy is something more spiritual?"

"More or less.  Another way of looking at it is that pleasure comes
from the hindbrain--it's the reward your body gives your mind for
fulfulling some vital function, like satisfying hunger or procreating.
 Any animal with a nervous system can probably feel some form of
pleasure.  Joy, on the other hand, is based in the forebrain--it's a
byproduct of self awareness.  It comes from knowing that you've
accomplished something good--something like saving your life, love. 
Or giving you pleasure...."  I added, smiling lasciviously.  She
returned the look with interest.

"It's too bad we can't stop for while and...."  she let the sentence
trail off suggestively.

"I know, sweetheart.  I'd like that too, but we really have to get you
home.  Speaking of which, here's the exit you told me to look for...."

After we got off the freeway, Natalie directed me through her
neighborhood; in about ten minutes we reached her home, an attractive
two-story house with well-kept shrubbery in front.  Before we got out
of the car, we shared one last slow, sweet kiss--the good-bye kiss I
dared not give her where her parents could see.  Then we walked up to
the house.  Natalie's parents greeted us at the door; her mother
embraced her tearfully while her father pumped my hand and thanked me
for her safe return.  I politely declined their invitation to dinner,
explaining that I had a lot of things to take care of, but that I
would be delighted to dine with them on my return from Israel, which I
hoped would be in three or four weeks.  After giving Natalie a final
hug and a chaste kiss on the forehead, I took my leave.

I got home around 7:00 PM.  Before leaving the airport, I had booked a
flight to London for the morning after next; there I would switch
identities before travelling to Israel.  After a quick dinner, I went
into my study and started up my computer.  When I had first arrived at
the Shadows' warehouse the previous day, I had broken in and planted
the blasting cap that had diverted their attention when I started
shooting.  I had also raided the computer they kept in the warehouse
office, copying the entire contents of its hard drive onto a Jaz disk.
 Now I began to pick apart the files there, to see what I could learn
that might improve the deal I intended to offer the DA.  It took me a
couple of hours to crack the encryption Kessler had used on sensitive
files, but in the end the Mossad designed software I used uncovered
his key.  Most of it was what I had expected to find: information
about the distribution of the Shadows' snuff films, and the ways in
which they laundered the money they made from that activity, along
with several robberies they had committed.  However, there were
several cryptic e-mails, and some details in the other files, which
didn't make sense at first.  I sat there long into the night, trying
to discern a pattern.

When I finally put it together, I leaned back in my chair with a low
whistle.  "This is not good," I murmured to my computer.  Apparently,
the Shadows had been one cell in a larger organization.  They were the
primary operatives; behind them was at least one and perhaps two or
three more cells, currently inactive, which would take their place if
they were ever compromised.  Over all the cells was a commander whose
identity was apparently known only to Kessler and the other cell
leaders.  From this elusive individual's grasp of insurgent
organization, I suspected he might be a former military officer, but I
could glean no solid information about him from Kessler's files; even
his existence was an inference, although one about which I had no
serious doubts.

When I was sure there was nothing more to be learned from Kessler's
files, I shut off the computer and sat back to think.  My most prudent
option, of course, would be to go to Israel and never come back... but
I disliked the idea of running from these people.  Better to keep on
fighting.  My advantage of complete surprise was gone now, but that
wasn't my only advantage.  I was a trained operative, and my opponents
were amateurs, or at best common soldiers like Kessler, who had been a
First Sergeant in the Marine Corps.  The commander might be an
officer, possibly even a special forces officer, but I very much
doubted that any of his subordinates were any better trained than
Kessler; for an operation such as this, keeping one's best units in
reserve made no sense.  Also, I would not be the only person hunting
the terrorists; the information I had developed would allow the FBI to
bring its considerable resources to bear on the problem of identifying
and arresting everyone remotely connected to the White Shadows.  Any
attempt they made to come after me would increase their chances of
being noticed by the feds... and of course, my skills and my resources
would make me a difficult target... I smiled, a predatory expression
with no mirth in it at all.  "All right, you bastards," I whispered,
"Come on out and play...."

The End (For Now)

Author's Note: in case anybody is curious about Sam's recipe for
waffles, here it is.  They really are the closest thing you'll find in
real life to Tolkien's *lembas.*  Enjoy.

World's Best Waffles

1) Put into blender:
--1/3 cup sunflower seeds
--1/3 cup pecan pieces
--1/3 cup cashew or walnut pieces
Grind to "nut butter"

2) Separate 4 extra large eggs.  Place whites in bowl of electric
mixer and yolks in blender with nuts.

3) Add to blender:
--3/8 cup corn oil
--2/3 cup milk or buttermilk
Blend till smooth

4) Whip egg whites to stiff peaks and set aside

5) Measure 4 cups low fat Bisquick into an empty mixing bowl.  Add
contents of blender.  "Rinse" blender with 2 cups of milk and add to
rest of mixture.  Mix together until smooth.

6) Fold egg whites into mixture gently by hand with mixing tool from
mixer or rubber spatula.

7) Bake in waffle iron until golden brown.

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