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From: orestes007@hotmail.com (Orestes)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 17 Oct 2001 04:39:38 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Character Flaw (MC MF FF m+f ) by Orestes
Date: Wed, 17 Oct 2001 06:10:06 -0400
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Character Flaw

By Orestes

orestes007@hotmail.com
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Orestes

***
 This work is copyright (c) 2001 by Orestes. You may  download and
keep copies for your personal use as long as all author related
information and this paragraph remain on the copies. I don't mind if
you send it along to a friend, repost it to an appropriate newsgroup,
or post it to your adult-oriented web site, so long as you don't
charge money for any of these activities. No alteration of the
contents is permitted.
***

   To say that I struggle with my writing is an understatement. I
battle. I fight. I wrestle my characters to the ground.

   It's a hobby, thank god. If I did this for a living, I'd go nuts.
Sometimes I think I'm already half way there.

   For a living, I work mostly with people who consistently disappoint
me. Cindy. Mark. Barbara. They're always letting me down. But I'll
tell you more about that later. First, I wanted to tell you about my
stories, and the way I have to armwrestle with my characters over
every little thing.

   It's my own damned fault, of course. In a way, it's a little
flattering. If I were writing characters without any substance, I'd
never have this problem. As it is, I spend all sorts of time getting
to know my characters before I even decide on the plot of the story. I
imagine them in different settings, doing normal everyday things, and
I get to know their little character flaws.

   Denise was the one who gave me my education on character flaws.
I'll tell you more about her later too.

   What she taught me, though, can't wait. You see, she taught me to
look at people in terms of their strengths, but especially in terms of
their weaknesses. Insecurity is a big one.

   That was Becky's weakness. No matter how successful she became, she
somehow just couldn't believe that she was entitled. In some small
way, she was always afraid that she would lose it all. I could see it
in the way she saved her money. She was almost compulsive about it.

   Sorry I'm throwing so many names at you at once. I'll try to slow
it down a bit. It's just that when I talk about my writing, I always
get a little ahead of myself.

   The truth is, her name wasn't really Becky. When I first imagined
her, she was firmly a Rebecca, and steadfastly refused to bend towards
my will. She just didn't much like the shortened version of her name.

   And it shouldn't have surprised me, because she was so intent on
projecting a professional image.

   Which goes back to her insecurity. I had a lot of trouble
convincing her to spend a little money and change her image. She was
worried about money... a lot.

   But like Denise taught me, these insecurities run deep, and can
affect a person in an unexpected way. And she should know. She was the
psychiatrist. At the top of her field, really.

   So I decided that Rebecca's insecurities, instead of being an
unattractive quality, could be used to make her see things my way. I
didn't figure it was too much of a stretch to make Becky begin to
worry that she couldn't continue to be successful unless she dressed
up a bit. You know... used her attractiveness to her advantage.

   It worked, of course. As soon as I had her worried that one of her
female co-workers would be promoted ahead of her, she withdrew some
money from her bank account and bought some clothing to draw more
attention.

   Myself being the master of this fictional universe, I was happy to
reward Becky with increased sales, and more attention from her male
co-workers. This is actually the part of the story I always like best.
Sure, it's fun to later see my character betrayed by the fates. I love
to see them sink to deeper levels of depravity and immorality.

   But the part I always like best is that first little concession
they make to their fatal character flaw, before it takes control. This
is where I have to work hard to keep the character doing what I want
her to, against all of her good sense. This is where I make the
changes that later come back to add the heat of humiliation to the
sex.

   Well, that's what I write, after all. I write about sex, and power,
and character flaws, and they all fit together so nicely that it's
hard to know which topic caught my imagination first.

   Becky. Not Rebecca, I told her. I made her think about it a lot. It
was the way it sounded. Becky Suedel rolled off of the tongue so much
more nicely than Rebecca. It was a good professional name. People
would remember her more easily. It would be a good career move.

   She hated it so much. She thought it was diminutive (her words, not
mine).

   In truth, I don't think anyone would have thought anything about
it, if she didn't react to it so much. But she did. She hated the way
her secretary said it. She cursed herself for ever telling the young
woman, "call me Becky. " And people noticed the way she hated the new
name, and they probably thought she was a little silly for taking
it... not because it was a silly name, mind you. I still like it a lot
better. They just thought she was silly for telling people to call her
a name that she didn't much like.
 
   I wasn't quite ready to start her descent yet, and she still had
some fight in her. She resisted my taste in clothing. She fought the
way I made her flirt with her boss. She resented the way that I made
her lease a more expensive car, to keep up her image.

   It all worked to her advantage of course. I gave her a promotion
and a big raise, just to muscle her along the way to her downfall.

   The problem is, and Denise would be the first to agree with me on
this, success isn't enough to conquer insecurity. Sometimes, it just
makes things worse. Kind of a stupid little paradox, isn't it ?

   When the promotion to sales manager came, poor Becky was filled
with doubts about her abilities. She was sure that she would fall
victim to the Peter principal. You know, the one that says that people
rise to the level of their own incompetence. It's so goddamned true,
too. The people I work with in real life prove it to me all of the
time. Cindy, Mark, Barbara... but I digress...

   In reality, Becky was quite capable of handling the sales in her
department, but she worried a lot about it, especially since she had
spent so much money upgrading her image that she really needed to hold
onto this raise just to keep pace.

   That's when I gave her a secret weapon over the other department
managers. I gave her a way to motivate her sales staff that they
couldn't compete with.

   When Becky first thought about it, she was ashamed that it even
occurred to her. When she started doing it, and it was working, she
felt even worse. Shame is one of my favourite tools from my big ol'
toolbox. I love to watch it twist around unexpectedly on my
characters. Every time I made her think about it, I gave her a little
sexual rush that made her hands tremble.

   I think that's when the people around the office began to look at
her differently. I mean, the guys had always given her a fair share of
attention, but these days, with thoughts of the secret weapon
simmering in her head, she found herself reacting to their
flirtations.

   A little blush. A little dance in her stomach.

   It was almost more than she could take. I was patient, of course. I
could go on this way for weeks, giving her daydreams. Fuelling her
insecurity. Making her spend money upgrading her image faster than she
could earn it. I could see her anxiety growing.

   Then, in a scene that I had anticipated since near the beginning,
she allowed herself a moment of weakness. You see, at the end of every
week, the company rewarded the top salesperson in each department with
a bonus cheque. It was Becky's job to use the bonus as a motivational
tool.

   It was important to make a big deal out of it. Becky would take the
top salesperson out for a casual lunch. She would buy him wine, and
talk about his hobbies, and flirt with him a bit. It was this last
tactic that was giving her the butterflies. The guys liked the idea of
going out for a nice lunch with a beautiful woman, who just happened
to be his boss, and seeing her fall all over herself to make him feel
like a winner. It worked like magic.

   Sometimes, she would bend forward a bit, and let one of the guys
see down her blouse a bit. I made sure that she wore a sexy bra on
those days. It always made her blush when she noticed his attention,
but she stayed in position a moment longer anyhow, just to make sure
he got a good look.

   She didn't want to think about how far she would go with this game.
It seemed to go further every time. A little more cleavage. A little
more wine. A hand on her ass as he walked her back to the car. Alan
Johnson bending her over the desk in her office, and fucking her from
behind.

   And it was as natural as all that. Yeah, I guess it's all a little
contrived, but I hope you can forgive me. It's a sex story, after all,
and I really wanted to get to the juicy parts. Then I could go on to
write the emotional aftermath of this lapse of judgements. Shame.
Humiliation. Anxiety.

   But I wouldn't let her step backwards. Not a bit. That wouldn't do.
After she had finally allowed her naughty thoughts to come to reality,
and unleashed her secret weapon to improve sales in her department,
things really heated up. What had begun with a single indiscretion,
and Alan Johnson pumping his semen into her while she squealed her
approval, repeated itself in various forms each week.

   Fred Brauer, a frequent winner of the weekly prize, liked to sit
back in Becky's big leather chair, and let her do the work. He liked
to play with her tits while she bounced, and hold her by the hips to
control her pace when he was ready to cum.

   It was a horrible idea, of course. Anyone rational would know that.
Becky knew it too. She hated the impulses that had guided into this
position, and the insecurities about her abilities that kept her from
calling an end to it.

   The fact was, sales had never been better. The whole staff was
motivated. Becky was getting attention from upper management because
her department was showing such a dramatic improvement. If she could
just keep it up for a while longer, she would definitely be given
another promotion.

   And a raise, she hoped. She needed the money.

   Then she could leave all of this humiliation behind.

   But it was hard to walk through the office anymore. There was an
energy in the place, and Becky was the centre of it. Everyone wanted
to win top sales, and Becky was the prize. It was hard to keep any
semblance of authority.

   Eventually, most everyone won the prize. It was just a matter of
one good week. Tom. Stephen. Paul. Amy. Yes, even Amy. If you'll
recall, she's the female employee who I had given Becky such
insecurity about before she got her promotion.

   I don't mind going into the details on that one. Becky spent the
whole morning dreading the coming lunch. She added up the numbers a
second and a third time, hoping that the results would change. The
unofficial tally around the office had Fred and Amy pretty close to
tied. Everyone was just waiting for Becky to come out and invite one
of them to lunch.

   When it turned out to be Amy, I don't have to tell you that it got
everyone talking.

   " Let me drive, " was Amy's only reaction. She made Becky fish out
the keys for the Lexus right in front of everyone. It was humiliating,
considering the long standing rivalry between the two women.

   Now, I'll admit, it seems like Amy is being a little aggressive
about this. A real woman might feel weird about it, or refuse to go
along with it. She might be a little nervous about the lesbian sex.

   I'll remind you, this is a sex story, and at this point, all I want
to see is the exchange of power between the characters, and the utter
humiliation of Becky. If I needed to nudge Amy away from some of her
natural aversions to achieve this end, I'll chalk it up to dramatic
license.

   " I want to see you flirt with me the way you do with the other
guys, " Amy told her boss. " I want you to show me all the moves that
earned you a promotion. "

    With a flush of shame, Becky went through the motions. She bent
forward and let the saleswoman look down her blouse. She applied her
lipstick slowly, the way all the guys liked. She swallowed her wine a
little too anxiously, perhaps hoping that a little buzz would help her
through the inevitable scene back at the office.

   As it turned out, Amy didn't wait long enough to get back to the
office. The spectacle of seeing her boss humiliate herself at the
dinner table made Amy anxious to close the deal.

   A few minutes later, Becky was on her knees in the restaurant
washroom, thanking god that the door had a lock on it, and watching
Amy empty her bladder before demanding the sexual relief she was
entitled to. When she was done peeing, she simply slid forward on the
toilet seat, allowing Becky to contend with the glistening droplets of
piss that stood in the way of her task.

   Amy enjoyed the feeling of a female tongue buried in her crotch,
but mostly, she seemed to enjoy hurling verbal abuse at her boss, who
was now brought down to the same level as the toilet bowl she was
resting her chin against.

   She played against all of Becky's insecurities. I'll admit to a
role in that. I fed the words to her while the first hints of orgasm
floated through her belly.

   " Useless cunt... you don't deserve your job... the only thing
you're competent at is getting fucked in the ass by Stephen
Underwood... I always knew that you were a worthless whore..."

   God, I love those little details. Even if they don't flow quite
naturally from the story, I get a kick out of them. There was an
expression I heard once, " The devil's in the details. "

   And Becky is learning all of the fine details of sexual
humiliation. Just last week, Becky had time to take in all of the fine
details, when Philip Frost finally took his turn in the manager's
office. It was an absurd scene. Inspired by scenes from his favourite
porno movies, Philip had decided that, after letting Becky suck his
cock for a while, he wanted to cum on her face.

   So Becky was treated to the glory of watching a middle aged man
contort his face while he stood above her, jerking himself off for the
grand finale. While she waited for his body to catch up with his
intentions, she had time to notice all of the little imperfections of
this man. She saw the red impressions his glasses had left on the
bridge of his nose. She picked out a stain on the portion of his shirt
that was usually tucked in.

   She smelled onion on his hands, no doubt from the burger he had
eaten at lunch.

   And, seeing this scene, she would normally be amused by how
pathetic Philip looked, grunting with impatience to cum. Despite his
arousal, he was having some trouble coming to an orgasm. Maybe it was
nerves. It would have been very amusing indeed, if she weren't the
stupid whore who was holding her tongue out to the tip of his prick,
and massaging her breasts to give him an arousing little show.

   Becky was thoroughly not aroused by this man. I mean, I gave her a
little tingle of arousal in response to the degradation of it all, but
mostly, I just made her reflect again on why she was doing this. I
made her think about the reason why she was humouring this man, and
grovelling at the level of his cock, pretending to be hungry for the
feeling of his sperm on her face.

   Every week there was another reason why she needed the extra money.
There was the fitness club membership. There was the surprisingly
expensive hairdresser she had chosen to go to. And, of course, there
would soon be payments for the breast implants that she was getting.
Yes, it was all quite expensive, keeping up the image of success that
would keep her in line for a promotion.

   I haven't decided what to do when stories about her antics reach
upper management. Maybe Mr. Riley, who breeds Labrador Retrievers,
will have a few ideas. I don't know. I have some time before I go that
far with it.

   Call it a work in progress. One of several. Too many, really.

   My real life goes on. Another work in progress, and sometimes even
more incredible than the stories I spin.

   For instance, the other day, while I was having coffee, and doing a
bit of daydreaming, my sister walked right over to my table.

   What makes this odd, I guess, is that my sister has been dead for
nearly ten years.

   It was one of those little episodes that made me wish that Denise
was still around to give me her perspective. She always told me not to
be so concerned about when reality doesn't seem to quite add up. When
I had first started seeing her, something like this would have really
rattled me. I would have spent weeks trying to figure out the
inconsistency. Denise would have told me about the frailties of the
human mind, and not to worry about it so much. I'm sure of it.

   So, on the advice of my former psychoanalyst, I took the appearance
of my dead sister with a grain of salt.

   " How're things, Jay ? " she asked me.

   " Um... fine, " I told her. " Say Anne, didn't you die a while back
?"

   " I guess that would explain a few things. "

   She was so nonchalant about it, that I wouldn't have felt right
making a fuss. It would have been impolite or something.

   I suppose that I should explain a bit of it to you, though, since
you don't know the story. When I was a kid, and my fantasy life was a
little less disciplined than it is right now, I used to think about my
sister a lot. I don't suppose there's anything abnormal about it. She
had the room right next to mine, and was only a couple of years older
than me, and she was pretty cute too.

   Anyhow, I guess I must have been reading some stories on the
internet. That's where I got some of my early ideas. That's where I
became a little obsessed with bondage. Hell, it was like a smorgasbord
for me back then, a bondage was just my favourite cuisine at the time.
Chicken a la Parker !

   My fantasies about Anne went that direction. Strangely enough, I
think I had some intuition that these kinky fantasies weren't all
fiction. I mean, Anne developed a taste for gothic attire soon
afterwards, and began hanging out with friends who all seemed to be
looking for the next big thrill.

   When I was in my room jerking off at night, I knew that Anne was
sneaking out her bedroom window. I could almost picture every moment
of her evening as she joined up with her new friends, and began to
experiment with tying each other up, and spanking each other, and
forced sex acts.

   It was all pretty coincidental, really. When I imagined that she
was being anally raped by her new friends at night, I could see Anne
having difficulty walking the next day. When I imagined that she spent
the night being whipped until her back was raw, I could hear her
cursing the sting of the water in the shower the next morning. It was
a weird symmetry between my fantasies, and Anne's reality that made me
feel almost guilty when I saw her suffering from a lack of sleep, and
a battered body.

   But I didn't slow down, and neither did she. I began writing my
fantasies down. I began drawing pictures. The more extreme my
appetites, it seemed, the deeper my sister delved into her night time
activities.

   Then, when she went too far with a game of asphyxiation, I knew
before the morning came that she wouldn't be coming home.

   That's was when my parents sent me to see Denise. They found my
writings, and my pictures, and all of the bondage-related pornography
that I had collected on my computer. They made the assumption that
Anne had been telling me about her lifestyle, and making me write the
details down as a journal for her. They were concerned about me. I
tried to convince them that it was all a coincidence, but they
wouldn't believe me.

   They thought I was involved. And on the face of it, I guess it
really seemed that way. The stories, I later found out, exactly
mirrored the accounts of her friends. The pictures were crude, but
they captured scenes that had actually happened to my sister.

   How did I feel ?

   Guilty.

   And this was why I was sent to see Denise in Portland. 

   It was a long weekly trip from the coast to see my psychiatrist.
Ironically, it was the boredom of this bus trip that provided me with
occasion to refine the fantasies that had caused me so much trouble. I
had banned Anne from my fantasies. In fact, my new rule was that I
would not create stories about anyone I knew.

   So I just picked random strangers and built up a life around them.
Like I remember one day the bus stalled as we were leaving town, and I
spent a good half hour watching a family packing up a u-haul truck
with their belongings. The parents were having troubles with their
teen-aged daughter, who was obviously sulking about the move.

   Although I never saw the girl again after that day, she was a
frequent subject of my weekly bus fantasies. I kept her image in my
mind effortlessly, and I built a background story slowly. There was no
need to rush. There was always next week.

   I guess you could say that I met Raven around the same time as I
met Denise.

   I'll tell you more about Raven in a minute, because she became a
frequent topic of my weekly analysis sessions with Denise. But first,
I guess I should finish telling you about the visit I had with my dead
sister. You see, this is my problem with writing (and why I've never
felt confidence in posting my stuff online); I lack structure. I sort
of let the stories ramble along at their own pace, according to the
moods of my characters, and how quickly I can bend them to my will. I
jump around too much.

   Anyhow, I don't know why my dead sister cam back to visit me almost
ten years after the events I've just described. It probably has
something to do with Denise leaving me. I began thinking about Anne a
lot more. I stirred something I shouldn't have, and in a way, I guess
you could say that I brought her memory back to life.

   The girl who visited me in the coffee shop the other day wasn't
*exactly* like my sister of course. She was more like how I imagined
my sister would have turned out if she had survived her
experimentations with bondage. She was a little older now. She dressed
differently. She smoked. Nonetheless, I could tell it was her.

   " So what have you been doing ? "

   " Quite a lot, really, for a person in my condition. I was sort of
living another life, until a few weeks ago. Then I began to have day
dreams, and remembered who I was. "

   " Have you considered that maybe you're wrong ? Maybe the life that
you were living is the right one. "

   She shrugged. It was a typical response for my older sister. 

   " So what are you going to do now ?"

   " I think we both know what I'll be doing. I have some catching up
to do. "

   " I guess. Just..."

   Anne cocked her head, a little amused by my reluctance to speak
openly.

   " ... just, be a little more careful this time, okay ?"

   " Yeah. "

   And that was it. A little afternoon resurrection, and my whole day
was blown.

   Which, of course, brought me back to thinking about how Denise was
gone from my life, and how much it had thrown me off. I can't believe
I've gotten this far writing without telling you about her.

   As much as I dreaded those weekly sessions at first, I soon came to
a realization that I could learn a lot from a psychiatrist with her
kind of insight into the human soul. She pretty much told me straight
out that she didn't much care about the stories I had written about my
sister.

   " You obviously picked up the clues about what was happening in her
life, and were able to draw a picture of her weaknesses. "

   Actually, the pictures I had drawn of my sister had shown her in
heavy bondage, with hot wax and clothespins on her body. And they
weren't really even that good. But that wasn't what she had meant.
Denise talked a lot about intuition.

   " People block out intuition as a valid source of information.
We're constantly getting information from our world, and filtering it
out according to our own biases. You're just a lot better at sorting
it all out than most people. I don't think it's anything to be
concerned about. "

   Even though she was convinced that the stories I had written were
harmless, she kept up with the sessions. It made my parents feel
better to be able to do something about it.

   Instead, she used the sessions to educate me about the strengths
and weaknesses of the human mind. It was a subject of great interest
for her. She was always making examples of her other patients, many of
whom she knew she would never be able to help, but gave her just
another angle to look at the frailties of human motivations. Week by
week, she shared her conclusions with me.

   Denise changed a lot in the time that I knew her. Early on, she had
written a paper about some obscure psychological phenomena that I
couldn't have been bothered to understand. Three years later, she
reversed her opinion entirely, causing a stir in the psychiatric
community because her original conclusion had been so well supported.

   A few times a year, she changed her image. Sometimes, the changes
were subtle. Other times, the changes were intentionally shocking.

   She moved her offices twice, and she was always talking about
moving to another state, or dropping her psychiatry practice entirely.

   I think that with all of her analytical powers focused on other
people, she missed the weakness that was a part of her own
personality. Denise was always looking for a new start. She never
wanted to stay in one place. Denise was always reinventing herself.

   It was this need for change that prevented her from advancing in
her field, despite being an incredibly talented doctor.

   But I'm getting a little ahead of myself. It was years before I
drew these conclusions. In the meantime, I was learning her craft, and
she showed a great interest in mine.

   " What have you written about Raven this week ?" many of our
sessions would begin. I would still be absorbing the effect of the
doctor's new dredd-locks, or a new addition to her facial jewellery,
or a redesign of her office, when I began updating her on the story.

   As you remember, Raven was a girl I saw in passing as she was
moving away from Astoria. She had been fighting with her parents about
the move. In the following weeks, I filled in the details. She was
upset because she had been doing so well in the local high school.
Everyone had been impressed by her talents.

   Raven was an artistic girl. She had taken up photography and
drawing at a young age. I have no hesitance in saying that she showed
much more talent that I had ever done in my own works.

   In Astoria, growing up in a community where west-coast artistic
ideals were highly valued, no one doubted that she could find her
place in the local galleries, and would be able to make a living off
of her talents too. Unfortunately, her father was less able to find a
living here, and accepted a position at a department store in a city
south of Portland.

   For the first few weeks of imagining Raven, on my long bus trip to
the city, I was satisfied to fantasize about her in an almost passive
sort of way. She was a pretty girl. In fact, she was just the kind of
girl I would normally have had a crush on. So, at least to start, I
was happy just to think about what she would look like changing her
clothes in the locker room. Sometimes, I would embarrass her by giving
her a moment of inappropriate sexual arousal (a subject which, as a
teen aged boy, I knew a lot about), but that was about it. Otherwise,
I just watched as her new life unfolded, and I learned about why she
was so miserable moving away from Astoria.

   " Is she just afraid, or is there something else ?" Denise knew
exactly the right questions to ask.

   Well, yes, Raven was afraid of change, but it was much more. She
was afraid of anonymity. The hallways here were filled with unfamiliar
faces. They didn't know about her. They didn't know how talented she
was. Or worse. Maybe they wouldn't care. The years of work she had put
into building her own personal brand name were thrown away. They were
wasted on these people. Here, they cared about gangster rap, and
hip-hop attire, and more traditionally, the high school football team.

   It was a culture shock.

   " But why does that concern her so much ? Surely there are still
art classes. She can still pursue her photography. "

   That's not the point. No one cares anymore. It used to make her the
centre of the universe. Now, she was a dark cold moon, waiting for a
moment of sun on her face. I'm not making this stuff up. These were
the heavenly and melodramatic terms that Raven painted the world in.

   " That's her weakness ?"

   Yes. Her need. Her weakness. She needed to be looked at again. To
be warm again.

   " And what's she going to do about it ?"

   Football.

   Well, I guess that was more my idea than hers. I don't know if
Raven ever would have allowed herself to drift into the orbit of
those, the brightest stars in the social constellation. Maybe she
would have just allowed herself to be miserable. But I played with her
weakness a little bit, and drew her towards the football team. Denise
agreed with me that it was a natural move for a girl so driven by a
need to be noticed.

   Raven hated football, of course. It was so bloody heartland
America, Lord's Prayer, Betty Crocker... it was the kind of thing she
would have made a loud point of ignoring in her previous life. But
Denise was right. With just a few weeks of toying with her weaknesses,
I had her watching the players' girlfriends, jealous of the attention
they commanded in social circles. She began to slowly reconcile
herself with the idea that she might, maybe, just perhaps be able to
date one of the players, if he were intelligent or sensitive enough.

   In the end, she couldn't find intelligence of sensitivity, so she
settled for silent dignity. Will McKenzie was quiet enough that Raven
could at least pretend that there was "more to him"... a side to him
that no one else knew about.

   But you know me. You've seen how my stories work. After this first
little concession to her flawed character, you know that I'm going to
lead Raven into some sick story line. It was just a matter of time.

   Denise was interested in the details. She told me not to be
embarrassed by my fantasies. A lot of people keep these dirty little
secret stories in their minds, and never let them out. I was just
being honest about it. In a way, coming to terms with my fantasy life
was even therapeutic. With Denise's reassurance, I was setting aside
my guilt over my sister's death.

   In the coming weeks and months, amongst our other discussions,
Denise listened to the way that Raven was adjusting to this new source
of celestial light in her social life. Little by little, I nudged her
along the way to becoming something new. She enjoyed the jealous
attention of the other girls at school. She enjoyed the thrill of
exhibitionism when Will had her pinned against her locker for a
groping session between classes.

   I didn't make her give up her artwork, but it sort of fell away on
its own against her new popularity. She was always going to parties.
She was hanging out with the other girlfriends and cheerleaders. She
was too busy shopping. Then, of course, there were the football games.

   Here was a plot twist that was already developing its way through
my imagination all on its own. I had very little to do with it until
later, when I saw its potential. At first, it was just a little thing.
The coaching staff treated these boys like real athletes, giving them
freedoms that would be denied to other students. For instance, it had
long been accepted that the boys could invite their girlfriends along
in the team bus when going out to road games. And, so long as the boys
were ready to play when they arrived, the coaching staff was willing
to let the boys and girls some unsupervised time to enjoy each others
company along the way.

   The first time Raven was invited, it was like being asked to join a
secret society. Once inside, she saw for the first time the freedom
that was given to this social elite. Beer coolers were brought along
for after the game. The boys wrestled and shoved each other, and
generally showed off their testosterone. The girls went further than
Raven would have ever guessed. They flashed their tits. They made out
with two or three guys at a time. One girl was even treating her
boyfriend to a pre-game blow job at the back of the bus. He head was
covered with the boy's jacket, but everyone knew what was going on.
Her face went red when everyone gave her a round of applause, but she
seemed to enjoy being the centre of attention for the rest of the
ride.

   I reviewed this scene in my own imagination, and in Raven's night
time fantasies too. Denise loved it. "It's right on point. You've
given this girl just the kind of environment where her weaknesses will
work against her every moral sensibility. She needs to be the centre
of attention. She needs it more than any other girl on that bus. But
for her to get the attention she needs, Raven will have to decide if
she can compete with these girls on a level where they, due to a lack
of brains of morality, have a natural advantage. "

   And, while I would never have put it quite that way, I knew exactly
what Denise was saying. Raven was used to being smarter and more
talented than the people surrounding her. Here, on the other hand, her
only defence against obscurity was a willingness to become a part of
the machine that was high-school football, a sport which had always
struck her as a little less interesting than watching grass grow.

   I worked with her. I held her hand. When necessary, I gave her a
little push. In fact, as far as the dynamics in that bus went, I was
helping all of the characters along. I urged them all to push it a
little further. I convinced the coaching staff to turn a blind eye to
the heavy drinking, and drugs, and to the more obvious sex acts that
were appearing each week.

   After a victory , the boys were full of a manic energy, and the
girlfriends were more than willing to help them celebrate. Raven went
cautiously with the flow, letting the boys see her body, letting them
touch her, letting them kiss her. She drank with them, and danced to
their music. But she was never the centre of attention. There was
always some girl who was willing to go a little further. In the end,
Raven would find herself in bed at night with feverish thoughts in her
imagination, urging her to take the spotlight. She wanted it so badly.

   It made sense, I told her. Why would she be there, watching their
game, letting them see her body, keeping her boyfriend sexually
satisfied... why would she be doing all of this, just to be "one of
the girls" ? It wasn't enough. She wanted to be more than that. She
wanted to be the girl everyone was talking about the next day. She
wanted to be the envy of all the other girls in school. She wanted to
be noticed.

   Of course, she knew what it would take. She would have to be
willing to have sex with one of the team openly, with everyone else
watching. Maybe she would have to have sex with more than one of them.
The thought was almost more than she could take. It gave her such a
shameful arousal, to think about lowering herself into that position.
Guys would be watching her every move... the way her pussy accepted
another cock... the way that cum glistened between her thighs.

   When the next game arrived, however, she chickened out a bit. Will
was making out with her near the back of the bus, and she was really
horny, but she couldn't make herself do it. She pushed him away before
things went too far, and spent the rest of the trip just watching the
scene around her, and cursing herself for being such a prude.

   It wasn't that big a deal, she told herself. A lot of these girls
had dated more than one of these players. She wasn't sexually
repressed. So what was she worried about ? And in the meantime, while
she sat anonymously at the back of the bus, the other girls were
making out with their boyfriends, and showing off their panties, and
sucking up all of the attention greedily.

   She stewed about it at the game too. If she wasn't willing to make
herself the centre of attention, what was the point in even trying.
She might as well have stayed in art class.

   So I gave her just the plot twist she needed. You see, up until
this point, I had always felt it would be much more fun to see the
boys celebrate a victory, so I nudged them along. I made the opposing
players miss the ball. I gave the team a few openings that they
wouldn't have otherwise come upon.

   But tonight, I decided to give them a little taste of defeat. It
was a shock to the crowd, many of whom had driven the two hours to see
their team take another road game.

   Raven was surprised by how much it changed the mood of everyone.
Suddenly, the girls she was hanging out with were looking for other
rides home. The team disappeared to the locker room to take their
lumps from the coaching staff. The celestial lights of her football
team were dimmed, and it gave Raven a taste of the same sort of panic
she had known that day when I first saw her packing her boxes into a
truck to leave Astoria.

   It was the perfect reminder. When the boys emerged to go back to
the bus, Raven had already decided what to do. No matter what it took,
people would be talking about her the next day. She wouldn't allow
herself to be pulled down into darkness again.

   " Why don't you grab a ride with us, " one of the other girlfriends
offered. " The boys are a real drag to be around after a loss. "

   " No, I'm sticking by the team. "

   Team loyalty was as good an excuse as any to get onto the bus. As
she soon learned, however, she would be the only one. All of the other
girls had kept away.

   The bus, usually bright with the reading lights, and loud with
music, had taken on an entirely different mood this night. As it
pulled away from the high school, the boys turned off their lights,
and slumped into their chairs to nurse their self-pity.

   Whatever it takes, Raven reminded herself. She grabbed a beer to
steady her nerves, and offered one to Will. He drank silently.

   And he stayed silent, until Raven dropped between the seats and
began to kiss his belly while pulling his cock free for a blow job.

   A few of the other boys were watching her, she knew. It was a good
start. Before this night was done, she wanted to give them all a show
they wouldn't forget.

   " Oh, fuck, that's it..." the usually silent football player began
to chant, as Raven forced back her gag reflex and allowed his cock
into her throat.

   " Man, the bitch is deep throating him, " one of the other boys
nudged his buddy awake.

   The bitch. Raven didn't much like the way he referred to her, but
at least he was noticing.

   By the time Will jerked his hips up from the bus seat, and filled
her throat, half the team must have been watching, and Raven was
feeling exactly like she had expected to in her feverish fantasies.
She felt like a total whore, but the attention felt good. It felt
right.

   It felt even better when one of the other guys grabbed her ass and
said, " I wouldn't mind a little piece of that. "

   In the dim light of the bus, Raven unsnapped her jeans, and allowed
the guy to slide his hand in to feel the softness of her panties and
smooth flesh. Another pair of hands emerged from the darkness to help
her out of her sweater.

   It was working. Everyone was watching. And although the mood on the
bus hadn't changed much, Raven could feel the focus shift in her
direction. It wasn't about losing a football game. It was about some
slutty bitch who was letting the guys undress her and put their hands
down her panties.

   " This whore is totally wet for it..." through her nerves, Raven
hadn't noticed.

   " Hey, McKenzie... you mind if I give her some ?"

   Will shrugged. It was another surge of humiliation of Raven. It
didn't matter what she wanted. She was just some dumb girl who was
begging for it. They only had to ask permission from her boyfriend.

   She was pulled onto the lap of one of the guys. It was one of the
receivers, but Raven couldn't remember his name. He pulled her panties
aside, and entered her roughly, and much more quickly than she had
expected. She bit her lip to stifle her cry of discomfort.

   " Mmmn, yeah... pump it into me..." she played along with the
script. Hell, I've never been much good at dialogue, and Raven wasn't
in one of her more poetic moods.

   She was absorbed in the sensations of the moment. The thrill. The
adrenaline. She was definitely the centre of the universe right now.
There was the smell of sweat, and beer, and dirt. The team was
cheering the receiver along as he pumped her from below. The taste of
semen was fresh in her mouth.

   Her kiss was refused. That wasn't what she was there for. The
player held her tightly by her hair as he put on a show for his
friends. Someone pulled off her bra roughly, exposing her smallish
tits and hard nipples to the approval of the team.

   " Take it, you cunt, " the boy demanded, as he emptied himself into
her body. When he was done, he tossed her into the aisle like a used
tissue.

   This is beginning not to feel right, Raven told me. I already knew,
of course. You should have thought about that before you allowed it to
get this far. You aren't going to back out now.

   Not that the boys would really even have let her. Her knees were
forced down onto the hardness of the floor, and one of the boys took
position behind her. Another boy fed his cock between her lips. They
didn't bother to ask her boyfriend this time. It was just understood.
She belonged to the team right now.

   But it wasn't the exciting, playful kind of sex play she had
witnessed on previous rides home. This was something more primal. More
brutal. This was a group of teen aged boys, their bodies battered from
the game, pouring the pain of their injuries and of defeat into the
body of some stupid slut. It was an act to regain their manhood by
pounding their frustrations into her mouth and pussy.

   Raven began to protest, too late already, she knew. There were too
many hands. Too many voices. When she tried to pull away from the
rough treatment, she was reward with a hard slap on the ass or across
the back of her head.

   She tried to hold still, and wait for it to end, but there was
always another cock and always another set of hands to dig its
fingernails into her abused tits. By the time one of the boys decided
to fuck her asshole, she was too exhausted to put up much of a fight.
Raven squealed and tried to squirm away, which only seemed to amuse
the boys further.

   It was impossible to say how long she stayed there, on the carpeted
aisle at the back of the bus, now soiled with spilled beer and spilled
semen. After a while, the bus came to a stop, and Raven began to hope
that they had finally reached the parking lot of the school. But it
was too dark here. Much too dark.

   The bus was just pulled over to the side of the road, while the
boys finished abusing her body. One of them fucked her from behind so
forcefully that her head was forced underneath the back bench seats of
the bus. And that's where she stayed until the entire team was
finished, and even the coaching staff had taken their turns.

   This wasn't how she had imagined it at all. All of the lights were
dimmed when the bus pulled back onto this deserted stretch of road.
 From where she was collapsed, her face beneath the seats, she could
barely make out any light at all.

   But she was certainly the talk of the school the next day. In fact,
she was treated sort of like a mascot. And the next time the boys lost
a road game, no one else even offered her a ride home.

   The team's record sure got worse from that point in the season. But
I digress.

   Anyhow, I kept it going like that for a long while, but it
eventually lost interest. Once the conflict was gone, it always does.
I found new characters, and new conflicts, and kept going on to Denise
every week, so that we could share our findings.

   Unfortunately, everything eventually comes to an end. I told you
that Denise was always looking to reinvent herself. The nine years
that she remained in Portland were filled with hints that she wanted
to move on. Last month, I think I knew it was inevitable.

   Something changed. It may have begun when there was a media report
of a high school sex scandal from a nearby city. Denise asked me about
it a couple of times, but I had conscientiously avoided the details in
the major newspapers. Apparently, it involved the football team, and
went back several years... and yes, I though the parallels were a
little odd, but as I said, I avoided the details. I don't need those
kinds of questions in my life.

   Denise tried to let it go, I think. She wanted to believe the
things she had always said, about intuition, and the frailties of the
human mind. But something had definitely changed.

   She gave me one bit of advice before she left on vacation. 

   " Maybe I've brought you in the wrong direction, " she admitted. "
I mean, I know that people have weaknesses. And you've been looking at
fundamentally strong people with character flaws, and seeing how it
leads to their destruction. "

   She paused. She looked... I don't know, apprehensive.

   " And maybe... maybe you could try looking at it differently some
time. Not all at once, I guess. I mean, you still have a lot of
stories happening... but maybe you could find someone with a
fundamental weakness, and see how it can lead to a new strength. I
don't know. "

   That was the last bit of analysis she gave me before going to the
Thousand Islands for a vacation. She sent me a post card from
Gananoque.

   And I know that I told you that I've tried not to let people I know
enter into my fantasy life, but when Denise left, I guess I couldn't
help myself. I was curious about where life would lead her. I knew
that she was trying to reinvent herself one more time. That was her
weakness.

   So, when she was in Gananoque, seeing the islands, I guess she
decided to go out to a bar one night, and find a man to spend the
night with. She chose the kind of man she would never have considered
in Portland. He lived in a remote area of the lakes region of Ontario.

   In my mind, he was a crude man. He was a trucker sometimes. Other
times of the year, he grew pot in the remote hills, where the
Provincial Police wouldn't be looking for it. He lived in a cabin, and
raised chickens. He joked with his buddies about the "proper place for
a woman", but only at home did Denise know how little he was joking.

   But it was as extreme a change as she could manage. No one would
believe how differently she was living, in the remote hills of
Ontario. She could barely believe it herself. Maybe one day, she would
reinvent herself again. But for now, it was raising chickens, and
chopping wood, and hoping to get pregnant so that her boyfriend would
lay off the rough treatment for a while.

   I don't know. That's just how I fancy it. I'll just say that her
colleagues were more surprised by her disappearance than I was. I
didn't even bother to rebook my appointments.

   So that's what's brought me here. I miss Denise, and I have to say
that things are falling apart a little. Like I told you before, I've
been a little careless with my thoughts, and that's what led to my
delusion that my sister came to visit me over a coffee. Over the last
month, a lot of things have been happening, and that's what's inspired
me to write down my thoughts like this... a sort of self-review.

   I'm just a lot less disciplined in my thinking than I've tried to
be over the past few years. It could become a problem for me.

   And I'd like to stop myself, but I guess I just can't be fulfilled
with my life the way it is. I've mentioned a couple of times that I'm
not happy with the people I work with. Cindy, Mark and Barbara are
their names. We all work at city hall together.

   I never would have guessed either. I never would have thought that
I would come out of high school, and get a paperwork job. Licensing.
Fees. Useless stuff.

   But as useless as it is, I try to make sure it gets done right.
There's where my frustration with my co-workers comes in. They're just
undisciplined. Barbara runs the office. She has a weakness for food.
Since I've known her, it's become a lot worse. She hides chocolate
boxes around the office. I don't know. It's almost a sexual thing, the
way she sucks out those cream fillings. I'll bet she was pretty
attractive in her day, but she's really packing it on now.

   Mark has his own compulsions. He joked to me one day about dressing
up like a girl for Halloween. Now there was an image I could have done
without. Then, not too much later, I began to notice little changes.
He was spending a lot of time in the washroom. One time, he came out
with some eyeliner still on. Other times, I thought I could see the
outline of a bra under his dress shirt. I think he's even trying to
lose weight to fit into women's clothing.

   Cindy. Poor little Cindy. I'm afraid that she might be pregnant
again. It's a pattern I've seen four times in the five years that I've
known her. She complains about being a young mother. She had one in
her teens too, making for a total of five. Nonetheless, as if by
impulse she can't control, she goes down to Seaside on the weekends,
and parties until she passes out. Then, it's like she never even
thought about the idea that she might become pregnant again. It's sad.
That's all.

   I know I'm sounding pretty critical here. I mean, who the hell am I
to be talking, with my head as screwed up as it is ? I wouldn't care
so much if they could keep their minds on their work for a while. But
all three of them sit around and waste time, just thinking about the
next time they can indulge their weaknesses. For a guy with my
intuitive abilities, it can be rather distracting.

   So a couple of weeks ago, I decided to take a little time off and
get the fuck out of town.

   As I said, ever since Denise left, my mind has been in turmoil, and
so I guess I just needed to clear my head a little, and see if I could
sort some things out.

   I drove down to Newport. I don't know what led me in that
direction, but I guess it all worked out okay. I mean, I met a new
character for my fantasy life, and this one is a little different.

   Yes, you have reason to be suspicious. All of my other fantasies
have thrown these poor women into situations that are pretty sick,
really. Poor unwilling Becky. My older sister, Anne. Raven, who I
haven't thought about for a while, but is sure to creep back into my
imagination if I let myself get undisciplined. I can't help but think
that Denise would have been better off with a happier ending too.

   But this one is different. Maybe I listened to Denise's last bit of
advice. I stopped looking for a hidden weakness, and maybe I was a
little overanxious to look for a hidden strength.

   The girl I saw was working in a souvenir shop at Bayside, a real
tourist trap. Actually, it was more of a T-shirt shop. It sold all of
these T-shirts with sarcastic slogans that didn't have much to do with
the Oregon Coast, but the tourists stopped to chuckle at anyhow.

   Rachel caught my eye because she didn't seem amused at all. And
maybe I would have just chalked that up to retail fatigue, but there
was something else in her manner. She just didn't seem to care. It was
a look I'd only ever seen on older people. Detached. Like her life was
already over.

   It nearly was. Or so my imagination goes.

   I tried my best not to force a story line onto her. I watched her
in my mind while she watched herself in the mirror. She brought the
blades so close to her wrists, and she wasn't just playing around
either. She was going to split the vein lengthwise, so that the
bleeding wouldn't stop when she passed out.

   I wasn't causing this, I tried to convince myself. Had I just
imagined this kind of grief into her ? No. It was there already. This
was just a coincidence. My visit to Newport was just timed badly.

   But I couldn't let her do it, could I ? Not the way I had allowed
things to go too far with my sister.

   So I tried to find something inside of her that would be strong
enough to stop the blade.

   And there it was: Fearless.

   Fearless. Like someone with nothing left to lose. If it didn't
matter if she lived or died, then why not live for a while entirely
without fear. Without remorse. Borrow some time from death, and do
everything she never had the courage to do. To pick a fight with
bullies, and never worry about getting a bloody nose. What did it
matter ? She was nearly dead now anyway. There would be no reason not
to tell her everyone exactly what she thought of them. To go and see
places that she'd never been.

   I found it in her somewhere, and I gave it to her as a gift. Next
thing I knew, she was laughing, and I was too. It was a nice moment.

   But when I returned to work, the old malaise came back. All of the
fantasies were returning to my head. That's when my sister came to
visit me. And Cindy, Mark and Barbara seemed worse than ever.

   I've been trying to distract myself by thinking about Rachel. Over
the course of a couple of days, she had become more assertive than I
could ever have imagined.

    This is a definite departure from my other fantasies, which,
although enjoyable, have become a little stagnant. Maybe I'm taking a
page from Denise's book, and reinventing myself... or at least my
fantasy life to some extent. And it's really refreshing. Instead of
seeing my characters giving everything up for a moment of weakness
(which is a bit of a pessimistic view anyhow), I'm seeing Rachel take
a lifetime of strength from a moment of weakness.

   She has broken off ties with her family. Just like that. She quit
her job, but not before getting a generous severance package by
threatening her boss with sexual harassment charges. She has spent the
last few nights with different guys, but not worrying herself about a
relationship... she's just taking what pleasure she wants, and moving
on.

   She has become, in just over a week, the exact kind of person I can
respect. Not like the weaklings I seem to have subconsciously
surrounded myself with.

   Rachel is sort of a symbol of order in the chaos. She's taking
control of her life, fearlessly.

   I can't help but think that people like Mark and Cindy and Barbara
really could use someone like her around the office... you know, just
to keep things disciplined. Under control. Truthfully, I could
probably use someone like her around too. Maybe that's why I've
dreamed her up.

   But hell, what are the odds of that happening ? Someone like her
wouldn't want to come up to Astoria and get a job in city hall. Would
she ?

   Still... I can't help but imagine...

***

Comments can be forwarded to: orestes007@hotmail.com
All of my stories can be found at: www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Orestes/

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