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Message-ID: <39385asstr$1037877004@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: threefriedeggs <parth_nogenesis@XXXhotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Whose Brother, Whose Sister (MF, sorta bro/sis, rom ultimately)
Date: Thu, 21 Nov 2002 06:10:04 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

This story is about incest.  It contains detailed descriptions of the
sexual relationships between teenage brothers and sisters.  If you are
not of legal age in your community, or if you find such material
offensive, don't read it.

This story has no author.  It was born of the parthenogenesis of
cyberspace.  Please keep it that way. 


                            Whose Brother, Whose Sister?
                            (Who's Brother, Who's Sister?)
                                     by Parthenogenesis


After four months of beating the bricks, I finally got a job offer.
The start-up I'd been working for had vaporized almost overnight,
tossing me back into the job market just before Thanksgiving, the
worst time of year to look for a job in Silicon Valley.  The whole
valley essentially shuts down for the holiday season, and in January,
everybody's hassling budgets and don't want to commit to new hires.
Things don't return to normal--whatever normal may be in the goofiest
industry on the face of the earth--until February.

Moreover, the market was tight right then, and, on top of that, I have
a pretty heavy-duty resume, so most of the people who were hiring were
looking for somebody who'd work cheaper than I was willing to.  When
DigiHertz decided they wanted me, they moved fast.  I got the offer
after only a single interview, and had only three days to wrap up my
loose ends before I was to report for work.  I would have preferred to
think things over a bit, but my bank balance was on a rapid collision
course with disaster, and, I kept reminding myself, "This is only a
living, not a life."  I took the job.

DigiHertz, incidentally, has nothing to do with cars.  They make
digital microwave radios.  If you have a digital cellular phone, it's
probably a DigiHertz radio that's carrying your call to the phone
company.  If you see little microwave dish antennas on the corner of a
building, there are probably DigiHertz radios behind them, pumping
data to a building on the other side of town.

I had to go into the DigiHertz building to sign the offer letter late
on a Friday afternoon.  When Sarah Nesbitt, the woman from Human
Relations who was handling my offer, gave me the letter at the
reception desk, she did kind of a double-take and stood off to one
side, looking at me closely.  As I was reading the letter, I glanced
at her out the corner of my eye from time to time, and every time I
did, it seemed to me that she was looking at me rather strangely.  I
was both puzzled by her looks and wondering whether maybe I was
misinterpreting something or whether maybe I'd missed a patch under my
chin when shaving, but the whole transaction took less than five
minutes, and after I was out of the building, I didn't give it any
more thought.

My introduction to DigiHertz, the following Monday, was four hours of
orientation that focused heavily on company policies and procedures;
in essence, 110 pages of reminders of who was boss and what was and
what was not permitted, carefully worded in politically correct "you
can't blame me" phrasing.  There was a heavy emphasis on sexual
harassment, which was not surprising.

About a year earlier, DigiHertz had been involved in an ugly lawsuit
involving sexual harassment.  It had cost them a million dollars in
settlement and a whole lot of bad press, and had rocked the company to
its foundations.  One of the VP's had leaned a little too heavily on
his administrative assistant, assuming that there was a "yes" down
there somewhere beneath all her "no's."  The admin had filed a
complaint with the HR department.  The director of the HR department,
who was an old friend of the VP, had treated the matter lightly,
taking the view that "well, that's just Harry."  He'd spoken to Harry,
but Harry didn't get the message, so the admin got a lawyer.  The
upshot of it was, aside from the million dollars, that both Harry and
the HR director were now working elsewhere, the president managed to
hang on by the skin of his teeth, and the company was hyper about
sexual harassment.  In order to keep his butt covered, the president
had hired as the new director of HR "Battleship" Barbara Corrigan, who
was known throughout Silicon Valley for her utter intolerance of
anything that even hinted of sexual harassment.  One of her hallmarks
was that, although she was the director of the department, she never
assigned sexual harassment complaints out to any of her staff.  She
handled them herself.

None of which bothered me much.  I certainly didn't have any intention
of harassing anybody, sexually or otherwise.  I was there to work, to
try to get back on my financial feet after four months without income,
and to be able to relax and enjoy having a steady income again.  For
the first week, I did nothing but read documentation and experiment
with the product I'd be working on.  I talked to only three people,
Ben, my boss, Mike, the fellow with whom I shared office space, and
Suzi, the departmental admin.  I went home at night with my head
feeling like it was stuffed with oatmeal, ate dinner, watched TV,
checked a couple of newsgroups, and hit the sack.

I got around the company only to the extent of going back and forth to
the men's room and the coffee pot.  It just so happened that, in those
few and brief excursions, Sarah's and my paths crossed fairly often.
I'd give her a nodded greeting, but nothing more, and it seemed to me,
once again, that she looked at me strangely and veered away a little,
almost going around me, making more space between us when we passed
than people usually do under those circumstances.

Despite its tedium, my nose-to-the-grindstone approach during that
first week was worth the effort.  DigiHertz's equipment was not
remarkably different from a lot of other similar equipment I'd worked
on.  Sure, they had a few twists and a whole bunch of local lingo I
was unfamiliar with, but those were minor details I could pick up as I
went along.  On Friday, I told my boss that I was ready to go to work
seriously, and the following Monday, I attended my first product team
meeting.

Tuesday morning, when I went to my desk, I found waiting for me a
voicemail message from Barbara Corrigan, asking--directing--me to
report to her office immediately.  Barbara's imperious tone was a bit
off-putting, but I wasn't bothered.  I assumed that there was some
kind of HR paperwork that had to be completed.

I'll swear that Battleship Barbara could have driven nails with her
face.  She was about fifty-five.  Her salt-and-pepper hair was cut in
a short, no-nonsense style, her dress was businesslike and severe, and
her rock-solid jaw gave no indication that she ever smiled.  Nor did
she beat around the bush.  After a curt greeting, she said, "Sarah
Nesbitt has filed a complaint of sexual harassment, visual harassment,
against you.  Do you know what visual harassment is?"

My shock must have been visible.  I'd scarcely even nodded at Sarah
Nesbitt.  How on earth could she be accusing me of sexual harassment?

"Yes, I know what visual harassment is," I said.

"And will you tell me, please?" Battleship Barbara asked.

"Visual harassment is when someone displays sexually offensive
material in his or her work area, or when someone repeatedly looks at
another person in a way that makes him or her uncomfortable."

"That's right," Battleship Barbara said.  "You are hereby issued a
verbal warning for this infraction.  If there's a second instance, you
will receive a written warning.  If there's a third instance, you will
be placed on probation."

"Whoa!  Wait a minute," I said.  "I think you'd better say that Sarah
Nesbitt alleges visual harassment.  I don't have any idea what you're
talking about.  Sarah Nesbitt handled my offer letter.  I've never
been near her or spoken to her, except when I came in and signed the
offer."

"Sarah claims that, on numerous occasions, when you and she passed in
hallways, you leered at her," Battleship Barbara said.

"Leered at her!" I exploded.  "I nodded to her in passing, just as I
have with other DigiHertz employees, both male and female.  This
doesn't make any sense at all."

Battleship Barbara fixed me with an icy stare.  "Ms. Nesbitt has filed
her complaint.  Unless you can produce evidence to the contrary, I
have to assume that her complaint has merit."

Nice.  Lovely.  HR taking care of its own.  I'd seen this tactic in
other places and under other conditions.  Put somebody instantly on
the defensive, then watch them squirm, especially when the accused
person has to try to prove a negative, which is damn hard to do.  How
could I prove that I *hadn't* leered at Sarah Nesbitt?  Sexual
harassment laws are written so that if a woman claims to have been
sexually harassed, the claim is virtually as good as proof.  I knew
that the worst thing I could do was start to blather in protest, so I
sat quietly, trying to regain control of myself and gather my
thoughts.  In the process of doing my homework the preceding week, I
had read all 110 pages of company policy.  I thought back over the
lengthy section on sexual harassment.  Finally, I spoke.

"Ms. Corrigan, I believe that, according to company policy, and
consistent with law, I have a right to confront my accuser."

Battleship Barbara looked at me coldly, but she had to comply.  She
lived by written policy, and she'd written that one.  She picked up
her telephone, called Sarah Nesbitt, and asked her to come to her
office.

When Sarah walked into Battleship Barbara's office, her chin was
thrust forward, and she had a defiant stance.  I looked at her closely
as she passed by me.  She was pretty, not model-pretty, but healthy,
girl-next-door pretty--somewhere beneath all her makeup.  I hadn't
really noticed the makeup before, very dark lipstick, and heavy
eyeshadow and eyebrow liner.  She didn't need all that makeup, and it
seemed inconsistent, made her look older than she probably was, late
twenties, I'd guess, a few years younger than I am.  She looked lithe,
with a figure like a ballerina, almost no chest, long, solid legs, and
a muscular, round, high, protruding butt, framed nicely in a pair of
very tight slacks.  She took a seat at the other corner of Battleship
Barbara's desk, sitting on the edge of the chair, her back rigidly
straight.

"Sarah," Battleship Barbara said softly, "I've informed Mr. Wilson of
your complaint.  He has cited, quite correctly, company policy that
permits him to confront his accuser directly, and that's why I've
asked you to come in.  I know this will be difficult for you, but it's
required by policy and by law.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand," Sarah said.

Battleship Barbara reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a small
tape recorder, which she placed on the front of her desk.  "I'm going
to ask your permission to tape this meeting," she said.  "This tape
will be as confidential as the conversation, and will be locked in my
file cabinet.  It will be used only in the event that future action
may make reconstruction of this conversation necessary.  Do you both
agree to the taping?"

"Of course," Sarah said.

"Of course," I said.

"Now, then, Mr. Wilson, what would you like to know?"

"I've been accused of doing something I haven't done," I said.  "In
order to be able to refute Ms. Nesbitt's claims, I have to know the
specifics of her charges, details about what she believes I did."

"All right," Battleship Barbara said.  "Sarah, would you please tell
us exactly what happened?  It's okay.  Take your time."

"It's quite simple," Sarah began.  "It happens that Mr. Wilson and I
have walked by each other a number of times since he started at
DigiHertz.  Almost every time we passed, he looked at me hard,
strangely, running his eyes up and down my body, focusing his
attention on my groin area and my chest.  It made me feel like he was
sizing me up, undressing me with his eyes."

Battleship Barbara looked at me with her lips pursed, as if to say,
"See, I told you so."  This was unbelievable.  I knew I hadn't stared
at Sarah Nesbitt and sized her up.  If anything, it was she who had
looked at me strangely, though I hadn't felt like I was being sized
up.  I'd felt like I was being looked at like a zoo animal in a cage.

"Then he touched me," Sarah said.

Battleship Barbara's jaw dropped.  I whipped my head in Sarah's
direction so fast that my neck cracked loudly.

"It was very late at night," Sarah continued, "maybe two or three in
the morning.  It was a very hot night, and I was wearing a baby-doll
nightgown with nothing else on.  I'd turned the covers back, and was
lying on the sheet, trying to get to sleep in the heat.  All of a
sudden I saw him walking into my bedroom.  He thought I was asleep,
but I wasn't.  I was so scared, I didn't know what to do, so I lay
there quietly, pretending to be asleep.  I could see that he was
wearing only undershorts, and that his stiff thing was making them
stick out in front."

Sarah's eyes were closed.  As she spoke, she began to rock forward and
back slightly.  Her voice lost its adult timbre, and started sounding
more and more like the voice of a young girl.

"He came over to the edge of my bed, and looked down at me, holding
his stiff thing in his hand and squeezing it.  He reached down and
pulled the hem of my nightgown up until my private parts were
uncovered.  He just stood there for a long time, looking at me and
squeezing his stiff thing.  Then he put his hand onto my private
parts, very lightly, as if he didn't want to wake me up.  I still
didn't move.  Then he started to rub my private parts.  He rubbed and
he rubbed, squeezing his hard thing while he was rubbing me."

Beads of perspiration appeared on Sarah's upper lip and brow.
Battleship Barbara rendered me a menacing stare.

"Then he put his finger into my slit and started rubbing on the
inside, and took his hard thing out of his shorts and started stroking
up and down on it.  While he rubbed me inside my slit, he kept sliding
his finger farther and farther between my legs, pushing it just a
little bit into my vagina.  I was getting all wet and slippery.  He
kept rubbing his finger between my legs, getting his finger wet and
slippery too, and rubbing my button.  Oh, Davey!  Daveeeeeey!  What
are you doing to me?  It feels so good and I'm so scared and you
shouldn't be here but it feels so good!"

Sarah's voice had become high and thin, completely like that of a
little girl, and she was rocking back and forth harder and harder.
She dropped her hand to her lap, and started rubbing between her legs.
I looked at Battleship Barbara and saw that her eyebrows had gone to
the middle of her forehead, and well they should have.  As if Sarah's
rocking back and forth and putting her hand between her legs wasn't
enough:  my first name is Mark.

"I knew this was wrong and I knew I should scream, but I couldn't.  He
kept rubbing and rubbing between my legs.  His finger was so slippery
that it just went back and forth and back and forth so easily.  He
started stroking his stiff thing with the same rhythm he was rubbing
me.  While he was rubbing, I felt my body getting all tingly.  I'd
never felt like that before and it felt so good even though it was so
wrong and I was so scared, and then, all of a sudden, my body did
something funny and it felt all kind of like fireworks inside.  Davey.
Daveeeeey.  Oh, Davey. Oh.  Oh.  Oh.  Oooooooooooh!"

At the same time Sarah made her final long "Oooooooooh," her rocking
stopped and her body became completely rigid.  She'd given herself an
orgasm, right there in Battleship Barbara's office.

"And then stuff spurted out the end of his stiff thing and landed on
my stomach and my hip.  It was warm and gooey and it felt good in a
funny kind of way when it hit my skin.  Then, after he rubbed me
between my legs a few more times and squeezed his thing a little bit
more, he took his hand away.  He took some tissues from a box beside
my bed, mopped up his gooey stuff, pulled my nightgown back down, and
left."

Sarah stopped rocking and sat silent.  As softly and as evenly as I
could, I said, "Sarah, how old are you?"

"Eleven," she said, in the high, girlish voice.

Battleship Barbara and I looked at each other.  The steel in her gaze
had been replaced by a look of concern.  She came around her desk and
put her hands on Sarah's shoulders and shook her gently.  "Okay,
Sarah," she said.  "It's okay, sweetheart.  That's enough.  You can
stop now."

Sarah remained motionless.  Battleship Barbara shook her a bit harder.

"Sarah?  Sarah?  Can you hear me?"

Sarah's head gave a quick jerk, and her eyes popped open.  She gazed
around the room with a look of disorientation and concern on her face.

Battleship Barbara turned her attention to me.

"Mr. Wilson, I believe you can go now.  I'll be in touch with you
later.  And surely I don't have to remind you that everything that
took place in this office is in strictest confidence?"

"Of course not, Ms. Corrigan.  Thank you."

I stood and prepared to leave.

"By the way, Sarah, who's Davey?" Battleship Barbara said.

"Davey?  Davey?  I don't know any ... oh, Davey.  'Davey' is what I
used to call my brother.  He died in an automobile accident ten year
ago, when he was nineteen.  He was three years older than me.  When am
I going to get to tell my story?"

Battleship Barbara and I exchanged a quick glance.  She pulled the
chair I'd been sitting over next to Sarah's, and, as she sat down and
put her arm around Sarah's shoulders, I left.

Obviously, Sarah had some kind of problem, and I felt kind of sorry
for her.  But it just as obviously didn't have anything to do with me,
and I was confident that Battleship Barbara would be off my case.

But there was one other thing wrong.  Sarah's story had given me a
raging hard-on.  What Sarah had described--apparently, an incident
between her and her brother that had taken place what? sixteen years
ago--was virtually identical to an incident that had taken place
between my sister and me.  I hadn't thought about that in years.  One
hot summer night, when I was fifteen and my sister was twelve, I had
been overcome by horniness and curiosity and had gone into my sister's
bedroom.  I'd never seen a naked girl before, and I thought that, with
the hot night, I might be able to catch a glimpse of my sister's bare
skin.  Light from a full moon was shining directly on my sister's bed,
illuminating her almost as brightly as if it had been day.  Her covers
were thrown back, and she was lying on the sheet, wearing a baby-doll
nightgown.  The nightgown was covering her crotch, so I couldn't tell
when I first walked in whether she was wearing panties or not.  But I
could see all of her legs, as she lay there asleep, completely relaxed
and natural; innocent.  And she looked so beautiful.

I didn't know what to do next.  I didn't have any plan to do anything,
so I just stood by her bed, looking at her, getting harder and harder,
squeezing my hard-on through my Jockey shorts.  After a while, I just
had to see whether she was wearing panties, so, very gently and
slowly, I eased the hem of her nightgown up, and almost spurted on the
spot when I saw her naked pussy.  My heart was beating so loudly I
couldn't hear anything else.  I felt dizzy and my ears were ringing.
She had a little patch of fur up at the top of her slit, but her pussy
lips themselves were bare.  Like the rest of her, her pussy was so
beautiful that I couldn't take my eyes off of it.  I looked and
looked, all the while squeezing my hard-on through my shorts.
Finally, I just had to touch it.  And I did, just barely.  When my
sister didn't move, I touched her again, then a little more firmly,
and then I started rubbing her pussy lips, as gently as I could.
After I'd rubbed her pussy lips for a while and she still didn't stir,
I pressed my finger into her slit, and began to rub up and down.  And
my sister had got wet and slippery, too.  By that time, I was so crazy
with horniness, love for my sister, and lust that I took my cock out
of my shorts and started jacking off with the same rhythm I was
rubbing her.  And then I came, like I'd never come before, spurting my
semen all over my sister's stomach and pussy and legs.  When I
realized what I'd done, I was scared to death that my sister would
wake up and tell Mom and Dad, and I was full of guilt for masturbating
myself while I masturbated her.  I mopped up my come and got out of my
sister's bedroom, as fast as I could.  I was scared that my sister
would say something for days afterward, and guilty for as long as I
was scared.  Apparently, my sister never said anything, and my guilt
and fear dwindled.  Then I must have pushed the incident into a far,
far corner of my mind.  It had never occurred to me, until Sarah told
her story, that my sister might have been awake during the whole
thing.

I never went into my sister's room in the middle of the night again,
and the two of us never did any other sexual experimenting.  But I
think that single instance left me with a predilection for women with
girlish figures, not big-breasted, wide-hipped women, but lithe women,
women built like ballerinas, women with small breasts and long legs,
and high, rounded bottoms, women built like ... Sarah?  I dismissed
that thought from my mind.  Sarah had the right kind of figure, to be
sure, but she wore way too much makeup, and she had problems, besides.
Even if I had felt some attraction to Sarah, I would have had to be
stone dumb to do anything about it.

When I walked out of Battleship Barbara's office, the chatter on the
HR floor stopped as quickly as if someone had sliced a knife through
it.  The corporate jungle fell silent as the tiger passed by.

I walked though the corridors, climbed the stairs to the second floor,
and threaded my way through the maze of cubicles.  As I passed by the
secretarial area near my office, the women quit chatting and typing
and fussing with their hair and fixed their eyes on me as I passed by.
I was sure that what had happened in Battleship Barbara's office was
still in her office, but some kind of word had spread.  Apparently
even the taint of accusation was as good as an admission of guilt.  I
had trespassed against womankind.  It's too bad upper management
couldn't learn to make effective use of the corporate tom-tom, surely
one of the most efficient means of communication ever devised.

I returned to work and tried to put the Sarah business out of my mind.
Two days later, I got a memo from Battleship Barbara, officially
clearing me of any and all charges.  Sarah had withdrawn her
complaint.  But even being officially cleared by Battleship Barbara
didn't satisfy the natives.  The women were nervous and avoided me.
The men kept their distance, too, civil when we had to do business,
but not willing to shoot the bull.  God only knows what they might
have had on their minds as far as the women in the building were
concerned, but they must have feared guilt by association.  When I
walked by a group of people talking, conversation ceased.  If I
approached a group of people as if I were going to join them or needed
to talk to somebody, they dispersed, leaving behind one poor soul
whose unfortunate chore it was actually to speak to me.  I was
uncomfortable, no doubt about it, but I knew that I wasn't guilty of
anything, and decided that I was just going to have to keep my head up
and let time run its course until people forgot, or something more
juicy came along.

Then, two weeks and one day following the meeting in Battleship
Barbara's office, just as I was beginning to feel an easing in the
tension around me and permit myself the hope that my life at DigiHertz
might assume a more normal routine, I got an email letter from Sarah.

     Dear Mr. Wilson,

     Please accept my apology for causing you trouble and 
     discomfort.  I know now that you in no way sexually 
     harassed me, and I'm deeply sorry that I accused you 
     wrongly.

     I would very much like to talk to you.  Could we meet for 
     lunch one day soon?

     Sincerely,
     Sarah Nesbitt

I was utterly dumbfounded.  Certainly I appreciated Sarah's
apologizing, and I could understand how that might have been difficult
for her, and something she felt was necessary.  But I couldn't see any
reason to meet with her, and I didn't want to do anything that might
jeopardize the relationship I was trying to build with DigiHertz and
my co-workers.  It didn't take long for me to compose my reply.

     Dear Ms. Nesbitt,

     I accept your apology.

     However, considering the circumstances that led to your 
     apology, I think it would be unwise for us to meet.

     Yours truly,
     Mark Wilson

I then put Sarah Nesbitt as much out of mind as I could.  I was really
getting into my new job.  I'd found that DigiHertz had a way of
looking at all its products and projects with a strange kind of
single-mindedness, that they seemed to consider each product line in
complete isolation from any other, and that there were huge areas of
confusion and overlap.  I'd put together a package describing how they
could eliminate two major areas of redundancy, speed up their time to
market, and save a good deal of money in the process, and I needed to
start the politicking I'd have to do to make my point.  I was working
hard, and I was, in my own slightly less than humble opinion, earning
my keep.

Three days later, I got a second email letter from Sarah Nesbitt.

     Dear Mr. Wilson,
     
     I can appreciate your reluctance to meet with me, but I 
     feel like I *have* to talk to you.

     This is *very* important to me.

     If we can't meet for lunch, could we get together for 
     perhaps an hour at any other time that would be 
     convenient for you?  Please?

     Sincerely,
     Sarah Nesbitt

Probably there isn't a man alive who doesn't respond at some level to
a "damsel in distress" message, no matter how much he may know
consciously that her distress has nothing to do with him, and I was no
exception.  Consciously, I still thought it was a bad idea to meet
with Sarah.  But it was *very* important to her, and she felt like she
*had* to talk to me.  My ego and my curiosity were piqued.  And I felt
kind of lousy.  It seemed clear that she had some kind of problem, and
I'd be a rat if I didn't help her try to solve it.  My guts were
saying "yes" at the same time my head was saying "no."  One lesson I
had learned in life, the hard way, was that when I let my head
overrule a strong gut feeling, I was almost surely making a mistake.
Men can have intuition, too, no matter how hard American society tries
to drub it out of them.  I wrote back to Sarah, and we arranged to
meet the following day at a little Mexican restaurant out on the north
side of Milpitas, far enough away from DigiHertz that it seemed
unlikely we might encounter anyone from work there.

Our meeting was, of course, strained at the start.  The last time we'd
actually spoken to one another was in Battleship Barbara's office,
after Sarah had accused me of sexually harassing her, and she'd told
her trance-like story.  But we made it through terse hellos and
ordering a meal.  I was uncomfortable with the silence, but it was
Sarah's show.  I was here because she'd asked me to me here, and I
didn't know what she had on her agenda.  I sat and waited.  Sarah
smoothed her hair, brushed invisible lint off her blouse, inspected
her fingernails, and rearranged the silverware.  When the salads came,
she finally spoke.

"This is even harder than I thought it would be," she said.  "I'm so
embarrassed."

Be gentle, be helpful, a voice inside my head cautioned.

"It's okay," I said.  "Please try not to feel embarrassed."

"Well, I, I mean, after all, in Barbara's office, I, well, I
masturbated, and I had an orgasm, right in front of my boss and a man
I don't know.  Oh, this is terrible, I don't even know where to
start."

"Like they always say in the movies, why don't you start at the
beginning?"

"Mostly because I don't know where the beginning is.  I mean, I'm not
sure any more what's real and what's not."

"If you can't start someplace, then start any place, and let's see
where it goes from there."

Sarah looked off in the distance, crunching a piece of romaine as she
thought.

"Okay.  I'll start with what happened after you left Barbara's office.
She played the tape of what I'd said.  I heard what I said, I heard
myself come, and I heard me say that I was eleven when you asked me
how old I was.  I didn't remember saying any of those things, but I
understood that I had said them, that I'd gone into some kind of a
trance.  Barbara talked to me for a while and helped me get my
bearings straight, then she suggested that I call the company's AEP
number and get some counseling.  So I did.

"I've seen the psychologist three times now.  I took the tape and
played it for her, too.  We've talked, and the psychologist says that
either one of two things happened.  Either Davey did come into my room
late one night and fondle me, or that's a fantasy I've been carrying
for so long, unable to resolve because of Davey's death, that I truly
don't know whether it happened or not."

"Can I ask a question?" I asked.  "I'm confused and curious about one
thing."

"Sure."

"I really don't think I was giving you any particular kinds of looks
when we walked by each other at work.  Why did you file your complaint
of visual harassment in the first place?"

Sarah sighed.  "I'm sorry, Mr. Wilson, but I don't have a good answer
for that, either.  To me, it *felt* like you were staring at me,
undressing me with your eyes.  I think I would have felt the same way
even if you were staring off into space as we passed.  I don't know
why I felt that way, but I do understand that it came from inside of
me, not in response to anything you did."

"How about if you call me Mark?"

"Okay.  And, of course, you should call me Sarah.  The psychologist
told me that it's very common for an incidence of childhood
molestation to take on a dream-like quality, that kids try real hard
to make it all go away.  After a while, they're not sure whether it
actually happened or not, but it's not uncommon for some small
thing--the shadow of an arm crossing your face or a quick glimpse of a
profile--to reawaken the memory.  I think what happened was that when
I first saw you, when you came to sign your offer letter, some little
glimpse of you triggered the memory."

"Do I look like David?"

"Not at all."

Sarah started fishing in her purse.  The waiter came and took away our
salad plates and brought the main course, the usual chiles rellenos
for me, and cheese enchiladas for Sarah.  As the waiter left, Sarah
handed me a photograph.

"This is a picture of Davey when he was sixteen.  After all this
business started, I went to an old photograph album to see if there
might be any similarity between you and Davey.  I haven't found it
yet."

I looked at the picture.  Sarah was right.  If there was any
similarity between Davey and me, I couldn't see it either.  In the
picture, Davey was sixteen-gawky, on the skinny side, sharp features,
and dark-haired, like Sarah.  My hair is sandy blond, and I have a big
frame, wide shoulders.  I gave the snapshot back to Sarah.

Sarah and I sat in silence for a few minutes, stirring around the
steaming food on our plates, lifting bites to cool a bit before we
moved them to our mouths.  Conversation between us, now that we'd got
started, was becoming easier.  But I still didn't know why Sarah had
wanted to talk to me.  Maybe she just needed to get Davey and me
separate in her mind.

"Probably you're wondering why I wanted to talk to you," Sarah said,
hissing breath around a dollop of scalding cheese.  "This is the hard
part.  The really embarrassing part.  The part I've *got* to do."

"Take your time," I urged.  "It's okay."

"That's the problem.  I *can't* take my time.  I'm afraid that if I
don't go through with this now, I never will.  It's most definitely
*not* okay.  Mark, I'm desperate, that's all there is to it.  I'm
twenty-seven years old.  I want to have a real life, to fall in love
with a man, to get married, have some kids."

Sarah paused for a few pensive bites of enchilada, then resumed
speaking, more with determination than with ease.

"This whole ... business ... has brought a bunch of stuff to a head,
and I feel like I'm standing at a turning point.  Either I can
confront it and try to overcome it, or I can avoid it and accept its
interfering with my life for the rest of my life.  I'm scared to death
that I may never have another opportunity to deal with this again,
that if I don't act now, I'll lose the chance forever."

Sarah closed her eyes, clenched her jaws for a moment, then continued.

"I've never been able to have a real relationship with a man.  I
become attracted to someone, feel like I'm falling love, and want with
all my heart to be close to him.  But when I try to be intimate,
something goes haywire.  I know there's nothing physically wrong with
me.  I can masturbate myself to orgasm, but when I'm with a man, I
just go numb, shut off.  I lie there and feel him moving in and out of
me, but nothing happens in my body.  I can't let go, wrap around him,
move, scream, come until I think I won't be able to draw another
breath.  No matter hard I try, nothing happens.  I get disappointed,
the man thinks there's something wrong with him, and the whole thing
falls apart."

"Isn't confronting it what you're doing with the psychologist?"

"Yes and no.  Certainly if I hadn't seen her, I wouldn't be able to be
talking to you now.  But psychotherapy takes a long time, lots of
talk.  After thinking it over for a couple of weeks, I've decided that
I want to meet the problem head-on, to try to shock myself out of
whatever it is and see if I can decide what's real and what isn't, and
get on with my life."

I felt like I should make some sounds of acknowledgment or say
something.  But I couldn't find any words that seemed appropriate.  I
looked at Sarah with what I hoped was an encouraging expression.

"Here's why I wanted to talk to you," she said.  "I want you to help
me confront the problem"

My eyebrows went up.  I couldn't think of a way in the world that I
could help her wrestle with her own demon.  Sarah reached into her
purse, then placed two items on the table between us.

"Here's the tape from Barbara's office," she said, "and a key to my
apartment.  What I want you to do is listen to the tape.  Then, some
time during the next week--I don't want to know exactly when you're
going to do it--I want you to come to my apartment in the middle of
the night and do to me *exactly* what I described on the tape.  After
you've done that, if I haven't woken up, I want you to wake me.  I
need to know what happened to me, and that you're not Davey."

I almost blew a mouthful of arroz across the table.

"Are you kidding?" I exploded.  "I don't know anything about
psychology, but that sure seems to me like it could backfire
completely.  I could scare the absolute shit out of you, or you could
freak out entirely.  Uh-uh.  No.  No way.  I don't like it.  Better
you should stick with your psychotherapist, or maybe find someone else
who'd be willing to help you.  Did you tell your shrink you were going
to do this?  I can't believe she'd go along with it."

Sarah's face fell.  She looked directly into my eyes.  As she did, her
eyes began to pool and glisten, and tears ran down both her cheeks,
leaving stains in her heavy makeup.

"I was afraid you'd react that way.  I guess I really can't blame you.
It's an awful lot to ask of someone who is, after all, a complete
stranger.  I'm sorry.  But it was you who triggered the response in
me.  I don't think there's anyone else who could help.  And no, I
didn't say anything to my therapist about it.  This was my decision
alone.  I told you I was desperate, Mark.  So desperate, I'm willing
to bet the farm.  I accept full responsibility for what I want to do.
If I freaked, I wouldn't hold you responsible."

"When it comes right down to it, you don't know anything about me.  I
could be some horrible guy who'd take real advantage of you in the
middle of the night or use your key to get in some other time and
steal everything you own."

"I thought about that, too," Sarah said, with a weak smile.  "What I
know about you is that you could have come completely unglued when I
accused you of sexual harassment.  You didn't.  I heard your voice on
the tape when you asked me how old I was.  You figured out quickly
that something was wrong, and were gentle, not vindictive or mean.
After I withdrew my complaint, you could have counter-complained about
false charges.  You didn't.  You could have refused completely to meet
with me.  You didn't.  And, after meeting me today, you could have
told me I was nuts and just to buzz off.  You didn't.  You listened.
Besides that, you look like a nice guy.  I'm comfortable with you.
I'm really not terribly concerned about the nature of your character."

My mind took off in two directions.  The part I wanted to listen to
kept telling me, this isn't your problem, this isn't your problem,
this isn't your problem.  It's a bad idea.  You could get yourself
into a heap of trouble.  It could turn out badly.  You have no
business even thinking about creeping into a woman's apartment in the
middle of the night and fondling her in her sleep.  It's crazy, is
what it is.  The part I didn't want to listen to was the mucho macho,
white horse, knight in shining armor, pure ego part.  You could help
the damsel in distress, it said to me.  Only you, nobody else.  You
could save the day and be a hero.  The debate between my ears raged
for several minutes.

"You *sure* you want to do this?" I asked.

"Very sure," Sarah said.

With a bit of effort, I got out of my own ego and fear and tried to
consider the situation from Sarah's point of view.  What a courageous
woman, I said to myself.  There's an incredible strength of character
and self in there.  She knows she's bogged down, and she wants to be
able to live a normal life so badly that she's willing to take extreme
measures to get what she wants.  I understood, finally, that if I
could get out of myself enough, I had the opportunity to give
something to somebody else, to help her with no thought of gain for
myself.  I suddenly felt very selfish.

"Okay," I said, picking up the tape and the key and putting them in my
pocket.  "I'll do it."  Sarah wrote her address on the back of a
business card and handed it to me.  I put it in my pocket along with
the tape and key.

"Thank you," she whispered, and began to cry in earnest, not loudly,
but visibly.  The people around us in the restaurant looked at us with
veiled eyes, obviously uncomfortable.

Sarah sniffed, fished a kleenex from her purse, and blew her nose with
a satisfying gurgle.  "I think I'm making a scene," she said, "and I
must look awful."  Her eye makeup was smeared and her cheeks were
streaked.  "We'd better get out of here."

Sarah went straight out to her car while I settled the check.  When I
went outside, I looked around until I saw her, using her rear-view
mirror to touch up her makeup.  I put a hand on top of her car and
leaned down to look at her through the open window.

"Seems like we ought to say something more," I said, "wrap this up
somehow."

"It's wrapped," she said.  "I don't want to say anything more right
now.  Any more talk might ruin the plan.  I'll see you when I see you.
And thanks again."

At that point, clearly, there was nothing more I could say.  Slightly
bemused, I walked to my car, sat for a moment to catch my emotional
breath, then returned to work.

That night, I listened to the tape.  I almost relived the scene in
Battleship Barbara's office, recalling again the similarity between
what Sarah had described and what I'd one with my sister all those
years ago.  And I got a bursting hard-on again.  I went into my
bedroom, lay down, and jacked off, coming with a ferocity that
surprised me.  Then I tried to decide when would be a good time to go
to Sarah's apartment.  If I did it immediately, I thought, it wouldn't
be much of a surprise, and she might not be sleeping, lying awake
waiting for me to show up.  If I waited too long, the plan might lose
steam of its own accord--Sarah would think I changed my mind,
chickened out.  Four days finally settled out as the right time.  Not
too soon; less than a week.  And four days would be a Saturday night,
probably a better time for extracurricular activity than during the
work week.

When I returned to work in the morning, I had a terrible time
concentrating.  I kept replaying Sarah's and my lunchtime conversation
in my mind, each time being slightly astonished that I'd agreed to go
along with such a bizarre scheme.  And I was thinking about Sarah ...
and my sister, and what this all might mean in some larger context,
the metaphysics of it, coincidences, how people get thrown together
and the strange things that happen sometimes.  But I kept plugging
away, trying to keep my mind on business and ignore the
still-fractured social dynamic around me.  When Sarah and I crossed
paths in the hall, we both averted our gazes, each of us pretending
that the other one wasn't there.

All day Saturday, I was nervous as a cat.  My stomach was wiggly, my
appetite was zip, and it seemed like I couldn't sit still.  When
pacing around my apartment didn't help, I went outside and walked for
miles.  During the evening, I listened to the tape again to be sure
that I had my role down right--and had the same reaction I'd had the
first time I listened to it.  I got such a raging hard-on I could
hardly concentrate.  I lay down on my bed and jacked off.  Better, I
thought, not to be carrying such a load of sexual heat anyway.  I was
going to Sarah's house to help her, not to get my jollies, and I
thought I might be in better control if I wasn't thinking one hundred
percent with my cock.  At 1:45, I slipped my little Maglite into my
pocket and left to drive to Sarah's apartment.

I tiptoed up the stairs to Sarah's apartment.  I double-checked the
apartment number she'd written down against the one on the door.  My
first fear was that I'd try to get into the wrong apartment, somebody
would call the police, and I'd spend a night in jail trying to explain
why I was trying to get into the wrong apartment.  I eased the key
into the lock and turned it with all the speed of a clock hand.  The
lock made a soft click, and the knob turned.  Slowly, I pushed the
door open just enough to enter, then eased the door shut, turning the
knob as it closed so that the shaft wouldn't snap into place.  Then I
stood with my back to the door, listening to the thumping of my heart
and trying to control my breathing.  My second fear was that Sarah
might wake up when she heard me enter, forget about our arrangement or
change her mind on the spot, and scream bloody murder--and somebody
would call the police and I'd spend a night in jail trying to explain
why I'd walked into the apartment of a young woman at 2:00 in the
morning.  But there was dead silence.  All I could hear was my own
heart and breath.

I turned on the Maglite to be sure that I didn't bump into any
furniture or trip on something on the floor.  I narrowed its beam to a
pencil's width on the floor in front of me, then softly walked toward
a hall that must lead to the bedroom.  When I entered the hallway, I
could see a soft glow coming from the bedroom, so I turned the
flashlight off.  Peering into the bedroom, I saw that the glow was
coming from two votive candles burning in shallow glass bowls atop the
bureau.  Then, with the script I was to follow in mind, I returned to
the living room and removed all my clothes, except my undershorts.
Then I returned to the bedroom.

Sarah had followed her part in the script, too.  The covers were
turned back, and she was lying on top of the sheets, wearing a very
short nightgown, so short that it barely covered her pubic area.  I
walked over to the edge of the bed and looked down at Sarah, and, as
my cock started to rise, I began to squeeze it.  After gazing at Sarah
for a few minutes, I reached down and pulled up the hem of her
nightgown until her private parts were uncovered--and my cock sprang
instantly to full hardness.

Sarah's bush was a grown-up version of my sister's pubescent one, a
larger tuft of hair at the top of her slit, with no hair at all on her
pussy lips.  I pulled my gaze away from Sarah's crotch and let it run
slowly from her toes to her forehead.  Her legs were long and shapely,
and, while she was lying on her back, her breasts were almost
invisible beneath her nightgown.  She'd washed off all her makeup
before she went to bed.  Between the soft light from the candles and
her lack of makeup, she looked like she was about fourteen.  She was
so beautiful, so innocent-looking that my heart began to ache with her
loveliness.  All the maleness in me made me want to wrap my arms
around her and protect her from anything that might threaten to harm
her.  There was no way I could ever do anything mean to this woman.

At the same time I was looking at Sarah and trying to reconcile my
emotional reaction to the sight of her lying there on her bed,
practically naked and completely defenseless, I was staggered by the
sudden appearance in my mind of images of my sister in her bed fifteen
years ago.  The images were stunning in their clarity and detail,
overlaid on the real Sarah in front of me, just like clips in a movie.
Reality wavered around me, and I began to wonder who was trying to
deal with whose demons here.  I shook my head and snapped myself fully
back to Sarah's bedroom.  Looking at her and squeezing my hard-on was
not a difficult task.  With considerable difficulty, I put my own
feelings aside and shifted my mind to the script I'd agreed to enact.
I put my left hand on her pussy, very lightly, and began to rub.  I
rubbed and rubbed, squeezing my cock while I rubbed her.  Sarah lay
motionless, her breathing even, apparently sound asleep.

Then I pressed my middle finger into her slit, as slowly and easily as
I could, at the same time pulling the waistband of my Jockey shorts
down and letting my raging hard-on spring free.  I grabbed my cock
firmly, and began to stroke it slowly.  As I rubbed inside Sarah's
slit, I began to dip my finger lower and lower, letting it run across
the entrance to her pussy, pressing gently on her pussy with each
pass.  Sure enough, before long, her pussy started to get wet and
slippery.  When my finger was thoroughly slick with Sarah's pussy
juice, I moved it to the top of her slit and found her clitoris, which
was erect and protruding from its hood.  Sarah's hips began to rock
slightly, and her breath rate increased.

By now, I was beginning to think seriously about coming.  Just like
the script said, I started rubbing Sarah's pussy and clitoris and
jacking off with the same rhythm, but I didn't need a script.  This
motion was completely natural.  Unavoidable.  There was nothing else I
could do.  Images of my sister's twelve-year-old body flickered and
flashed across my vision.  Sarah's hips pumped harder, and her breath
became ragged.  Then, all at once, her body went rigid and I came as
if a gun had been fired inside of me.  I didn't just spurt, I shot,
and the first blast of my semen landed on her stomach with an audible
splat.  I rubbed Sarah's pussy and clit as my balls drained dry, and I
mean drained dry.

"Davey," Sarah moaned.  "Daveeeeey.  Oh, Davey.  Oh.  Oh.  Oh.
Oooooooooooh!"

I pumped myself so dry I had an ache between my legs, and my knees
were shaking so violently I feared that I might collapse.  When I
finally finished coming, I stroked Sarah a few more times and squeezed
the final few drops of come out of my prick.  I took some tissues from
a box on the nightstand beside the bed and mopped up both Sarah and
myself, then pulled her nightgown back down.

Then I sat down on the edge of the bed and put my hands on Sarah's
shoulders, shaking her gently.  "Sarah?" I whispered.  "Sarah!  Are
you all right?"

Sarah's eyes snapped open wide in alarm.  She sat up and snapped her
knees to her chest, knocking my hands off her shoulders and almost
clipping my chin.  She threw one arm across her face, her hand turned
palm out, in the classic defense reaction.  "Davey!" she shouted.
"What are you do--"

"No, Sarah," I said softly.  "Not Davey, Mark.  Remember?"

Sarah's eyes flicked right and left in confusion and fright.  Then she
blinked and gulped and gasped sharply.  "Oh!  Mark!  Oh!  Oh.  Yes, I
remember, now."

"Do you remember my coming into your room and rubbing you?" I asked.

"No, I don't remember anything.  I must have been sound asleep."
Sarah sniffed the air.  "But I came, didn't I.  And so did you.  I can
smell it, both of us, and it feels like I just came."

I sniffed, too.  The air was rich with the smell of Sarah's heat and
my semen.  I wanted to go back and start rubbing her again, and now I
wanted to taste her too, to bury my face in the wonderful aroma of her
sexual excitement.

"Yes, you did.  And you called out Davey's name while you were
coming."

Sarah looked disappointed.  "I guess I shouldn't be surprised," she
said.  "I suppose it's human nature to look for a quick fix.  I want a
quick fix."

As we talked, Sarah relaxed.  She lowered her knees and dropped her
hand from her face and slumped forward.

"I guess I should be going," I said.  "Are you going to be okay?"

"I think so," she said.  "I was scared to death when I first woke up,
but I'm okay now.  Thanks for trying."

I reached out and hugged her.  She returned the hug without much
enthusiasm.  "You're welcome," I said.  "The pleasure was at least
partly mine."

Sarah's mouth twisted into a wry smile.

"Well, good night," I said.

"Good night," Sarah responded.

I left her sitting like that on her bed, slumped forward, looking
disappointed.  I dressed quickly and returned home, again feeling out
of joint, as if we should have said more, reached some kind of closure
or conclusion to the failed experiment.  But we hadn't, and it didn't
seem right to go back into Sarah's bedroom.

When I got back home, I went straight to bed--and lay awake for
several hours, excited by what I'd seen and done with Sarah, sharing
something of her disappointment.  I tried hard not to remember the
visions of my sister, but they wouldn't leave me.  This was Sarah's
business, not mine.  It was she who needing fixing, not me.  As much
as I didn't want to look at it, I had to admit to myself that
something was going on with me.  My hero complex was suffering, too.
I hadn't rescued the damsel in distress, fixed everything and made it
all right.  Finally, I drifted off into a shallow sleep.

Sunday, I rattled around like one pea in a very empty pod.  I was
unsettled, unhappy.  I wanted to call Sarah, to see her, to talk to
her.  I still felt like there was more I could do, something that
would be helpful to her, something that would make her smile.  But my
part in the script called only for my visiting her in the middle of
the night.  It was still her show, and I couldn't intrude and try to
force my feelings or beliefs into her life.  I did my best to ignore
what I was feeling and consider that I'd done all I could under the
circumstances.

Monday, when I got to work, there was an email message from Sarah
waiting for me.  I opened it with a mixture of joy and fear.

     Do it again.

was all the message said.  Those three words were enough to make my
heart leap.  Yes!  Sarah wasn't going to give up--and I'd have the
opportunity to see her and touch her and feel her again.  I sent her
back an even shorter message:

     Okay.

Sarah's request both made and ruined my day.  I was all but quivering
like a puppy with anticipation at being close to her again, and that
excitement ruined my ability to concentrate on my work.  And I had to
figure out when to "surprise" her again.  This time, I decided to go
immediately, that same night.  The reason I told myself was that she
wouldn't be expecting me so soon.  The reason I didn't admit to myself
was that I just wanted to be with her again as soon as I could.  I
made it through the day with maybe 51% of my mind on what I was
supposed to be doing for DigiHertz.

At home, I ate a light supper that I barely tasted, then fidgeted and
twitched.  I turned on the television and looked at it, without the
foggiest idea what I was watching.  I read the same six pages of a
book three times before giving that up.  I went out and walked around
the neighborhood for an hour.  I took a shower.  Finally, inexorably,
no matter how slowly, the appointed hour arrived, and at 2:00 a.m., I
let myself into Sarah's apartment.

I took a quick Maglite check of the floor to be sure there wasn't
anything to trip over, then skinned out of my clothes, except, of
course, for my Jockey shorts.  Sarah had again left votive candles
burning on top of the dresser.  In the soft glow, without makeup and
looking completely innocent and vulnerable, she seemed even more
beautiful than she had on Saturday.  Tonight, she was lying on her
side, with her marvelous, long legs slightly scissored, the luscious
curve of her bottom exposed where her nightgown had ridden up
slightly.  As if anything could have prevented it, my cock started to
rise, according to the script.  I gave my cock a couple of squeezes as
I stood there, looking at her and feeling my heart begin to ache with
her loveliness.

I wasn't too sure how to get her onto her back so I could move to the
next part of the action.  I didn't want just to push her for fear that
I'd wake her, so I began to stroke her thigh lightly, letting my hand
run up and over the exposed part of her bottom.  Her skin was
incredibly soft and smooth and warm.  I didn't want only to touch and
rub her, I wanted to kiss and taste that skin, to run the tip of my
tongue over it, to bury my face in it--but I couldn't, and I didn't.
After a few minutes, Sarah sighed and rolled to her back.

I gave her a minute to settle into her new position, then I pushed her
nightgown up.  This time, I did depart from the script slightly.  I
didn't lift her nightgown only enough to expose her pussy.  Carefully,
carefully, I kept inching it up until her breasts were exposed, too.
I wanted to see her breasts and nipples so badly I could barely stand
it.  I wanted to see as much of her as I could.  All of her.  When her
nightgown was at the top of her breasts, I stood back and looked
again, marveling at the sheer beauty of her grown-up little-girl bush,
and her adolescent breasts, only slightly rising from her chest as she
lay on her back.  She had adolescent nipples, too, pink and small.  In
that position, in the soft glow of the candlelight, she looked half
her real age, and my cock swelled almost to bursting.

Then I started touching her, but again I departed from the script
slightly.  I didn't do exactly what she'd described on the tape and go
directly for her pussy.  I let my fingers trail lightly up her thighs,
stroking repeatedly from her knees upward, stopping just before I got
to her pussy lips.  Then I moved to her breasts, placing the palm of
my hand flat on them and rubbing softly.  I traced the outline of her
breasts with a fingertip, making circles that spiraled inward toward
her nipples.  As I teased around those pink, pubescent buds, the
aureoles puckered, and her nipples rose to proud little points.  From
her breasts, I moved my hand downward, rubbing her stomach and tracing
circles around her navel.  Sarah sighed again and moved her legs apart
slightly.  Only after I'd satisfied myself that I'd touched as much of
her as I dared did I let my hand come to rest on her pussy, cupping
all of it like a fragile treasure.

When my hand's journey arrived for its sojourn on Sarah's pussy, I
pushed my shorts down and brought out my bursting cock.  If I'd wanted
to, I could have come in only a few quick strokes, but the script
didn't call for that, and I wanted to make these moments last as long
as I possibly could.  Barely squeezing my cock, I dipped my middle
finger between Sarah's legs.  She moaned softly and lifted her hips
slightly to meet my touch.  She was already wet.  My finger started
its dance between her legs, stroking gently from bottom to top and
back down, again and again.  On each pass over the opening to her
vagina, I pressed lightly, letting my finger just slip in to pick up
more wetness and lubricate its slide.  My finger slipped and it slid,
up, down, around, dipping in, going down to the ridged pucker of her
asshole and up to the bump of her clitoris.  I squeezed her pussy lips
together gently, then put my finger back between them.  Finally, I
focused my attention on her clitoris, hard and sticking out from her
pink, swollen labia, and at the same time began stroking my cock in
earnest.  This time, no images of sister flashed across the reality of
Sarah.  This was only Sarah, and I wasn't just fondling her slyly in
the middle of the night.  I was making love to her in the only way
available to me.

As I zeroed in on her clitoris and began rubbing around it and
stroking it back and forth as I stroked my cock with the same rhythm,
beads of perspiration appeared on Sarah's upper lip.  She began to
moan and to move her hips in time with my stroking, her movements
becoming stronger with each pass of my finger over her clit.  As her
breathing quickened and I felt her muscles begin to tense, I quickened
the strokes on my cock, then, all at once, just as her legs clamped my
hand between them and she let out a long "Aaaaaaaaaaah," I came so
hard that my vision blacked out for a few moments.  From somewhere in
the blackness, I felt my cock pulsing and pulsing, pushing out shot
after shot of semen with an intensity that eclipsed the entire world.

When my vision returned, I saw that I'd drenched Sarah's pussy and
stomach with my come.  She was panting as if she'd just crossed a
finish line, and her chest was a bright pink.  I was gulping air and
struggling to remain upright on knees that were threatening to fold
like paper at any moment.  The air was redolent with the scent of
Sarah and me, tropical with the heat and moisture of our passion.  I
gave Sarah's clitoris a few more very soft strokes, her hips jerking
at every touch, and squeezed the final few drops of semen from my
softening prick.  Finally, I swallowed hard, then gathered up some
kleenexes for the mop-up.

I put my hands on Sarah's shoulders and shook her gently.  "Sarah?" I
whispered.  "Sarah?"

Once again, her eyes flew open.  "Da--" she began, stopping herself
quickly.  "Oh, Mark.  Mark!  My God, what happened?  Oh, my God.  I
feel like I've been on a roller coaster ride between Mars and Venus.
Oh, my God!"

She threw her arms around my neck and pulled me down to her with
astonishing strength.  As my nose went into the hair above her ear,
the points of her nipples pressed against my chest.  I inhaled deeply,
smelling her shampoo and skin, and feeling the dampness of her skin
against me.  "Oh, Mark," she said again.  "Oh, my God."  I ran my
fingers through her damp hair and down to her shoulders and hugged her
back.  I nibbled at her earlobe and kissed the side of her neck.  With
the tip of my tongue, I tasted her slight saltiness.

Finally, after a long time, but still too soon, Sarah relaxed her hold
on me and pushed me back.  "Oh, Mark," she said.  "What happened?
What happened?"

I looked down at her, feeling love and tenderness for her that the
script didn't call for and that I couldn't tell her about.  "From the
outside," I said, "it looked pretty much the same as it did last time.
I think that whatever happened that sent you on your roller-coaster
ride happened inside of you."

Sarah looked at me with wide eyes, chewing pensively on her lower lip.

"Mark, I....  I mean, ....  I think...."

"Go ahead," I said.  "It's okay.  You can say anything you want to."

"I ... I don't know what to say.  My emotions feel all scrambled up,
and I don't know exactly how I feel.  I feel ....  I think ...."

Sarah lapsed into silence again.  I waited.

After a long minute or two, she said, "I think I need to think about
everything for a while."  She threw her arms around my neck again and
gave me a bone-crushing hug.  "Thank you, Mark.  Just thank you.
You're so ... you're so *nice* to have agreed to help me like this."

I thought maybe I should be thanking her.  I'd never felt as strongly
about a woman as I now felt about Sarah.  I wanted to lie down beside
her, wrap my arms around her, hold her, protect her from herself and
the world, give her a safe place, lose myself in the feel and scent of
her.  But I couldn't do that.  I suddenly became aware of a tremendous
emptiness within myself.

"You know you don't have to thank me," I said, stroking her hair.
"All you have to do is be yourself."

Sarah relaxed her grip again, and, reluctantly, I stood, looking down
at her.  "I guess I should go," I said.  I bent forward and kissed her
on the forehead.  "Sleep well."

Sarah drew a breath as if to speak, then stopped.  When she did speak,
she said, "You too.  Good-night."

I went to the living room, dressed quickly, and then slipped out the
front door.  I didn't want to leave.  Even though my body was walking
away from her apartment and getting into my car, I'd left some part of
me behind with Sarah.  Back home, I undressed again and went to bed,
lying in a fetal position, trying very hard to wrap around the sudden
emptiness I was feeling.

The next day at work two things happened.  The first, completely
unexpected, was that I was asked to go to observe and analyze a
customer's installation in Kuala Lumpur.  Cell phones were big
business in Southeast Asia, where the population wants to become
First-World and it's a lot faster, easier, and cheaper to set up a
microwave transmitter than it is to run phone lines through congested
cities and dense jungles.  I was to leave the next Saturday at noon,
stay a week, and return the following weekend.  Ordinarily, I would
have been overjoyed with the opportunity for travel.  I loved going to
foreign countries, seeing other cultures, and learning more about the
world.  But, this time, I'd rather have stayed at home.  At least a
while longer before leaving the country for a week.  But I was in no
position to say no.

The second, not unexpected, was an email message from Sarah:

     Thank you again for last night.

     I think it's working.  Can you do it one more time, 
     please?

Could I do it one more time?  I could do it a thousand more times.  A
million more times.  I could spend the rest of my life touching and
feeling and smelling Sarah.

     You're welcome.

     Good.  Of course.

I sent back to her.  What about timing this time?  I fussed and
fretted for a while, then finally decided on Friday night.  I wanted
the memory of an evening with Sarah, uncluttered by work days in
between, to take on my trip with me.  And, I reasoned, if I lost some
sleep Friday night, all I had to do was get to the airport on
Saturday, and help sleeping on the long flight would be welcome.

The rest of the week went by in a complete blur.  I had all kinds of
homework to do to prepare myself for the visit to the customer's site,
a zillion meetings to attend, and all kinds of pep talks to listen to
from both engineers and sales and marketing people.  When I got home
at night, I was so pooped that I was brain-dead from dinner time until
an early bed time.  Friday was there almost before I knew it.

And Friday night, I was as exhausted as I'd been all during the week.
I ate dinner, then made sure that all my papers were in my shoulder
bag, and that my suitcase was packed, except for my shaving kit.  I
took a shower, then, about 11:00, I sat down to watch television--and
dozed off.  At 3:15, I awoke with a start.  Shit! I thought.  I almost
missed my appointment with Sarah!  I grabbed my Maglite and jacket,
and ran out the door of my apartment.

This time, as I was undressing in Sarah's living room, I departed from
the script again.  I didn't leave my Jockey shorts on.  They were only
an encumbrance, and, I decided, Sarah and I had gone far enough that
her possibly seeing the bulge in my shorts wouldn't add much to the
drama.

Sarah was, once again, sleeping in the glow of candlelight.  This
night, she was lying on her back, and her nightgown had ridden up just
enough to bare the very bottom of her pussy lips.  She was *so*
achingly beautiful lying there that the instant I saw her, my cock
started to rise.  I stood and looked at her, squeezing my swelling
cock and stroking it from time to time.  When I couldn't endure the
wait any longer, I once again slid her nightgown up enough to bare her
breasts.  This time, I started with her breasts, rubbing them softly
and teasing circles around her nipples.  When her nipples had become
thoroughly hard, I moved my hand down to her stomach, rubbing in
circles, and pausing to move just the pad of my index finger around
her navel.  Then I started at her ankles and rubbed up her lower legs
and her thighs.  Her legs parted slightly.  I put the palm of my hand
on the inside of her thigh and stroked up almost until I touched her
pussy, when slid my hand back down to her knee.  I repeated the motion
on her other thigh with the back of my hand, not quite touching her
pussy, but lifting my and tracing around the top of her slit and
through her bush, then back down the inside of the thigh nearest to
me.

After some minutes of rubbing her thighs and around her pussy, I
dipped one finger into her wet and ready slit.  Her pussy lips parted,
and her clitoris made its appearance.  Up and down I rubbed, her pussy
and my finger getting wetter, sliding my finger down to her asshole
and back up to her clit.  Her breathing got heavier, and she moaned
softly.

At this point, I didn't much care whether there was a script or not.
I wanted to taste Sarah, all of her.  I leaned over the bed and put
one hand one either side of her shoulders, and kissed her on the
forehead, at the same time inhaling the fresh scent of clean hair and
shampoo.  With my lips barely touching her, I kissed around her
forehead and onto her cheeks, the tip of her nose, and, very lightly,
brushed my lips over hers.  I kissed on down to her chest, all around
her breasts and her nipples.  I ran the tip of my tongue around and
over her nipples, then placed my lips over them, more giving them a
very wet kiss than sucking them.

My mouth continued downward, to her stomach and around her navel.  I
licked all around her navel and dipped my tongue into it.  My lips
continued down to her bush, where I moved them back and forth over her
fur as it were the finest pelt, then moved further downward still,
along first one side of her pussy lips, then down the other.  I kissed
down one thigh and back up the other.

Finally, throwing both the script and all caution to the wind, I got
up on the bed and knelt between Sarah's legs.  I bent forward and
kissed her on the outside of her pussy lips, from her bush down as far
as I could go.  When I extended my tongue and ran it up her slip, I
heard her breath hiss in through her teeth.  I curled my tongue into
the wet opening between her legs, savoring the flavor and the hot,
female scent of her, then licked up until the tip of my tongue flicked
over her clit--and felt her fingers lace themselves into my hair and
grip tight.

"Hi, Mark," Sarah laughed.  "You're late tonight."

"You're awake!"

"You bet I am."  Sarah sat up just enough to skin her nightgown off
over her head, then lay back and wiggled her fingers at me in a
come-hither gesture.  "C'mere, you," she said, "c'mere, c'mere,
c'mere."

I raised up, leaned forward, and, in one motion, wrapped my arms
around her and slid into her waiting wetness.  Without speaking, we
clung to each other like two survivors of a shipwreck, hanging onto
each other for dear life.  I touched my lips to hers, then our mouths
joined, and we kissed, and we kissed, and we kissed, our tongues
dancing with each other, sharing our souls along with our saliva.

After several minutes, Sarah rocked her hips up and wrapped her legs
around the back of my thighs.  "Oh, Mark, I can *feel* you," she
sighed.  "God, can I feel you, and God, do you feel *good*.  Then, as
we started to move, time ceased to have meaning.  We were completely
lost in each other, the twistings and thrustings of our bodies only
the physical expression of the dance of our souls.  As Sarah's hips
became more insistent against mine and her orgasm washed over her with
a wail that started at the tips of her toenails, I came, too, dying
and being reborn in moments.

We continued to cling to one another while the world reassembled
itself, panting and rubbing our perspiration into each other.
Finally, Sarah gasped, "Mark, I....  Mark, I ...."

I touched her lips with my finger.  "Shhh," I said.  "Me, too."

We continued to lie wordlessly, face-to-face and belly-to-belly,
kissing lightly and touching each other's faces, until I shriveled out
of her.  We mopped ourselves up a little, then we rolled to our sides.
Sarah drew her knees up and snuggled against me; I wrapped my arms
around her as I might have a child, my heart aching with love and
tenderness, a desire to protect this woman next to me, and a hope that
the feeling could last forever.  And then we slept.

I woke up again at about 8:00, and my first thought was about catching
my flight to Malaysia.  Then I realized that I was not at home.
However Sarah and I might have twisted and turned as we slept, we were
snuggled in the same spoon position in which we'd gone to sleep, and
my morning hard-on was clamped firmly between Sarah's thighs, resting
against the nearly hairless lips of her pussy.  I moved only slightly,
tentatively, as if to separate myself from her.  Sarah grabbed my
wrists and pulled me more tightly to her.  Then she lifted her top leg
a bit, wiggled her hips a little, and I was inside her to the hilt.
We lay joined like that, drifting in and out of sleep, I think, for a
while, then I moved in and out of her with long, slow strokes, until I
came with a peaceful release that carried with it all the love I felt
for Sarah, and she shuddered against me.  And we lay joined still,
until I was no longer in her.

We separated, and Sarah rolled over so that we could look into each
other's eyes.  I kissed her lightly, and ran my finger across her
forehead, brushing her hair from her eyes.  What was in my heart was,
"I love you."  What I said was, "Sarah, I have to go now."

Disappointment traced across her face in capital letters.  "Oh, Mark,
I ...."  She wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me until my
bones cracked.  "...I know," she said.

Even though the script had gone completely out the window, I still
dressed in the living room, just as before, and departed, leaving
Sarah lying in her bed.  This time, a large part of me remained behind
with her, wishing circumstances were different, wanting to stay
wrapped around her, to be inside her, to have breakfast with her, to
brush my teeth standing next to her at the bathroom sink.

I raced home and took a quick shower, my hair still damp when the
airport shuttle arrived at my door.  Thank God I'd had the foresight
to be completely packed the night before.

I wish I could say that I enjoyed my stay in Kuala Lumpur to the
limit, that I was able to be there one hundred percent, and go with
the flow, but I didn't; I wasn't.  My meeting with the customer was
completely successful.  We tweaked his installations and surveyed new
routes for his expansion.  I more than justified my trip.  I did do
touristy stuff, in a detached way.  I learned that KL was not a new
city, but had been built from scratch during the middle of the
nineteenth century.  I learned that "kuala lumpur" means "confluence
of two muddy rivers," and I stood at the confluence of those rivers,
now encased in concrete flood control channels, and far less muddy
than they might have been a hundred or more years ago.  Being
accustomed to the semiarid climate of Silicon Valley, I was wretched
in the tropical heat and humidity, and, along with thousands of
locals, ate dinner on the street, purchased from a two-block long
array of sidewalk vendors.  I fell in love with satay, thin strips of
grilled beef on wooden skewers, served with a peanut sauce.  Being 180
degrees out of phase with my own time zone, and having crossed the
international dateline, I literally never knew what day it was.  I
finally made a list of days, and crossed one off each night when I
went to sleep.

Sarah's spirit was with me every waking moment, hovering around my
head and shoulders, reminding me of the night we'd spent together, and
it visited me in my dreams, leaving me with an ache in my chest and my
groin.  My body was in Malaysia, but my heart was in an apartment in
San Jose, and I couldn't wait for my body and my heart to be reunited.

I got home at 4:00 on Sunday afternoon.  With my last ounce of energy,
I washed off the stickiness and smell of Malaysia, airplanes, and
airports, and collapsed on my bed, where I remained for fifteen hours.
It was 10:00 on Monday morning before I got into the office.  My body
was in San Jose, but I felt like my biorhythms were somewhere between
Guam and Hawaii.

At work, I dropped my tote bag at my desk, then went out onto the main
floor to get travel expense forms from the departmental admin.  Sarah
was there, on the other side of the room, chatting with some friends.
She and I saw each other at the same time, and she began to run.  She
came toward me as fast as she could, bobbing and weaving around desks
like a backfield runner.  Her face was clear and shining with a smile
with a smile that lit the room and my heart.  She wasn't wearing any
makeup, except for some light lipstick, and, to me, she looked more
beautiful than she ever had.  "Maaaaaaaark," she began to call loudly,
when she'd closed about half the distance between us.  Heads all over
the room popped up, and people came to the doors of their cubicles.

When she was close enough, she launched herself, and hit me with an
impact that nearly bowled me over.  She wrapped her arms around my
neck and her legs around my waist, and clung tight.  With her face
buried in my neck, she said, "Mark, oh, Mark, I thought you were never
going to get back.  I've missed you *so* much."  The entire room was
dead silent, and there wasn't a jaw that wasn't agape.

Presently, Sarah relaxed her grip and let her legs slide down mine
until they reached the floor.  With her wrists crossed behind my neck,
she said, "You gonna come see me tonight?"

"You bet," I said.  "How about if I take you out to dinner first?"

As for the rest of the folks at DigiHertz, I'm sure they'll figure it
out by and by.

parth_nogenesis@XXXhotmail.com

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