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From: "Mr. Variag" <ludmax11@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} "Sarah Redux" {Varangian} (MF ROM)
Date: Thu, 15 May 2003 02:10:03 -0400
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Sarah Redux

a Story of Rediscovery
Copyright (C) 2003, Varangian



A single glimpse of the woman left me breathless, not because she
was young and beautiful, and I horny.  None of that was true.
She, in her early thirties, possessed a plain, yet pleasant face,
while I had a wife who after twenty-three years of marriage never
failed to entice me to robust sex at least once a week.

She looked like Sarah all grown up -- though Sarah never had,
because she died in a car crash at age sixteen.  The resemblance
was uncanny.  I caught the woman staring at me when I looked
again, but she turned her head quickly and went on to view the
next Van Gogh.

I neither followed her nor sought to be nearby, but in the turns
of the gallery we encountered each other more than once.  The
third time she looked into my face and asked, "Do I know you?"

I shrugged my shoulders, smiled and replied, "It's unlikely.  I
would have remembered, of course.  But you do resemble a person I
knew thirty years ago.  Please forgive me for staring."

She smiled in return.  "I was only two then, so I must not be the
girl.  I too should apologize for looking at you, although I
can't say I've ever met you before despite a certain something
about your face.  Are you a professor?  Perhaps I've noticed you
on campus."

"It's possible, although not here.  I've been at Ann Arbor for
fifteen years."

"No, that can't be it.  I've never visited the U of M.  I studied
at Chicago."

We fell silent and regarded each other for a long moment.  Like
Sarah, she had dark hair and an impish face unadorned by
cosmetics.  She was also a head shorter than I and without
discernible breasts beneath the white blouse and well-tailored
jacket.

"It's bizarre," she remarked.

"Indeed it is."  I laughed.  "Perhaps we've met in another life.
But I won't take any more of your time.  Please excuse me again."

She grinned in a perfect imitation of Sarah, turned and stepped
away without a further word.  I gazed at her as she retreated,
shook my head, then headed in the other direction.

I almost bumped into her in a crowd at the museum's exit as I
went out.  "Oops!" I exclaimed, arms raised in surprise, not
quite touching her.  She turned and laughed.

"The fates have it in for us," she remarked.  "We should at least
introduce ourselves."

"Thomas Ellsworth," I said, beating her to it.

"Professor Ellsworth."  She extended her hand.  " I'm Katie
Schneider."

We shook hands formally.  "The girl I mentioned earlier was Sarah
Crawford.  Do you by chance have a Crawford in your past?"

She shook her head.  "Not that I'm aware of.  Have you lost touch
with her?"

"She's been dead for thirty years."

"Oh.  I'm very sorry.  Were you close friends?"

"High school sweethearts.  It was a car crash."

She gave a commiserating look.  "I'm sorry if I've dredged up
unhappy memories."

"We were very happy until the end: like children, you know."

She looked up and down the drive in front of the museum as though
expecting a ride.   She then turned to me again.  "Did you come
down from Ann Arbor for the exhibition?"

"Yes.  I was invited like the rest of the people here, perhaps
because I've written on Van Gogh.  He has always been a passion
of mine.  If I ever win the lottery, I'll spend every penny to
buy one of his works."

"I have one," she admitted in a small voice.  "It's an
unimportant watercolor from his early period -- before he went to
Paris."

My face must have taken on a foolish expression of astonishment,
because she grinned at me.  "Unimportant!" I exclaimed.  "None of
his stuff is unimportant!"

"Here's my ride," she said quickly.  "I'd like to show it to you,
if you're not in a hurry."

The car was a tan Bentley.  A liveried chauffeur got out and
stepped around to open the rear door.  Such signs of luxury were
in keeping with someone who owned a Van Gogh, I thought.

"That's very kind of you," I responded.  "But I'm afraid I've
already been too much of a bother."

It was a lame objection that I hoped she would reject.  I was not
yet certain whether I was more interested in the lovely woman
than her Van Gogh.  It would have been a difficult query, because
I was comfortably married and had two children in college.

"I'm not suggesting anything naughty," she said with a wink,
reading my mind the way Sarah always had.

"Yes.  I would very much like to see it.  Do you want me to
follow you?" I asked, extending an arm toward the parking lot
where my more modest vehicle waited.

"No, no.  Come with me.  Marko will drive you back to your car."


* * *


In the vehicle's closeness I sensed a vague whiff of lilac,
something I had always associated with Sarah, who every Spring
since she was ten presented me with a bouquet snipped from a
neighbor's bush.  During lilac time at age thirteen we kissed for
the first time, and I briefly fondled a small breast.  She, a
religious girl, pushed my hand away, while remaining in my
embrace.  We never went further than that.

"You seem bemused, Professor Ellsworth.  May I call you Tom?"

"Yes, of course.  I'm sorry.  The scent of lilac awakened a
memory."

"Lilac?  I don't smell it.  Are you feeling all right?  You seem
pale."

I laughed.  "Perhaps it's because I skipped lunch."

"We'll soon fix that!"  She waved at a leather cabinet.  "I'd
offer you a drink right now, but since my husband's death I no
longer keep alcohol in the car."

"I'm sorry . . ."

"It's been over a year now," she interrupted.  "Are you married?"

I held up my left hand to display the wedding band.

"Children?"

"Two: twin young adults.  They're both at Yale."

"I've never wanted a child," she confessed.  "I guess it's
selfish, but I don't think I'm patient enough to be a good
mother."

"Sarah once said that!  Those very words!"

"Did she.  Was there a problem?  A scare?"

I hesitated before answering.  "We were never that intimate.  We
were only kids."

"Most girls are fully grown at sixteen.  You're haunted by her,
aren't you, Tom?  Even after thirty years."

I nodded.  "I often think of her, but I wouldn't say the memory
haunts me."

She placed a hand on my knee.  "But you must fantasize about
'knowing' her completely."

"Hah!  I started doing that when I was thirteen."

"Does your wife resemble her?"

"Not at all.  Cynthia, my wife, is tall and blonde."

She squeezed the knee.  "So, there's some unfinished business in
your life."

I looked at the intruding hand and said, "I'm happily married."

"I'm sure you are, Tom," she responded and removed the hand.


* * *


Katie's large house was situated on an acre lot in an expensive
neighborhood not far from the university.  A maid opened the door
as we ascended the front stairs.  The interior was extremely
tidy, like a museum, which was appropriate, because I immediately
recognized a Sisley and a Manet even before entering the living
room that extended at least forty feet.

"My husband was much older than I," she remarked.  "People say I
married him for his money, and it's true."

I did not know how to respond to the unbidden history lesson.
The woman seemed a bit quirky, which only enhanced her mystery,
because Sarah had been like that too.

She led me to a smaller parlor and pointed to the wall.  "There's
my Van Gogh," she said.  "Make yourself comfortable.  I'll go and
see about something to eat."

She left and I studied the painting.  It was a dark scene
depicting two peasants in a field.  Although it was undeniably a
Van Gogh, I had seen much better in the museum earlier.

"I told you it was an unimportant work," she said upon returning
and stepping to a wet bar.  "What's your preference?"

"I'm not much of a drinker.  I usually add soda pop."

"Not here you won't!  Try this Scotch."

She handed me a generous glass and we sat together on a leather
sofa that faced the painting.

"Have you told Cynthia about your fixation?" she asked, placing a
hand on my knee again.

"Fixation!  It's hardly that!" I protested.  "But she already
knew about Sarah and me.  They were school mates."

"Indeed!  Are you suggesting you've only known one woman?"

The intrusive question irked me, but I replied truthfully.  "We
went steady in high school and married after graduating from
college."

"Evidently you had better luck with her."

"I've never wanted anyone else!" I retorted.

"Except Sarah."

That was too much.  I scarcely knew the woman and she was prying
into something delicate. "I've seen your Van Gogh, Katie.
Perhaps it's time for me to leave."  I placed the unsipped glass
on a side table and rose.

"If you must, Tom," she responded, also rising.  "Marko will
drive you back to your car.  But you should stay long enough to
eat something.  You are pale."  She looked at me for a moment,
then shrugged.  "It's up to you."

She was obviously backing off, but from what exactly I could not
comprehend.  The thrust of her words was towards sex, although
that intent seemed improbable.  I was a potty, forty-seven year
old history professor.

"You've been very gracious," I apologized.  "I didn't mean to be
rude."

She waved a dismissive hand.  "Sit and finish your drink.  I'll
go and hurry up lunch."

After she left I picked up the glass and sipped exquisite liquor
while pacing the "small" parlor, which was larger than my living
room.  A few minutes later the maid appeared with a tray of food,
placing it on the coffee table with a deferential nod.  I nibbled
a finger sandwich, and when Katie failed to return I sat and ate.


* * *


I heard Katie's voice from behind as I poured another drink at
the bar.  "We won't be disturbed, Tom."

I turned and gasped at the sight of her.  She was clad in a
short, plaid skirt and a white blouse.  Her slender legs were
bare except for anklets.  She had tied her dark hair into a pony
tail, and looked like a grown woman imitating a school girl.  But
the effect, for me, was devastating.  Despite the mature face,
she was Sarah as I remembered the girl.

"Wha..., What are you up to?" I stammered, then stood mute to
marvel at the sight of her.

"Is this what Sarah looked like?" she asked, pressing hands down
her side to emphasize the meager breasts.

I paused to catch my breath before answering.  "Yes.  Exactly,
although she wore skirts only infrequently.  The pony tail is
perfect.  Are you certain you've never met her?"

"If so, Tom, I was only a baby at the time.  I would not have
remembered, would I?"

"I don't understand, Katie.  Why have you done this?  If it's
some kind of game, I'm afraid it's in bad taste.  You're toying
with a memory that's very special to me."

She looked hurt.  "Are you offended?  I was hoping to cheer you
up, to let you experience something you missed as a boy."

Again the hint of sex, and I was sorely tempted despite twenty-
three years of faithfulness.  "Why are you doing this, Katie?
You bear a striking resemblance to her, but how could that be of
any interest to you?"

She shrugged, then stepped close to touch my arm.  "Is it
important, Tom?  Loosen up and let your imagination run free.
Pretend I'm Sarah for a while."  She encircled my waist with her
arms.

The scent of lilac was unmistakable.  If I had only imagined it
before, now it was real.  I could not resist kissing her.  Her
response was almost chaste, virginal.  The lips scarcely puckered
as though she were doing it for the first time.  It was as if we
were thirteen again.  I gasped, hugged the slight creature and
exclaimed, "Oh, god!"  I brought a hand between us to fondle a
small breast, soft and braless.  Sarah never required such an
item.

"I trust you, Tommy," she mewled into my ear, her arms now around
my neck, leaning up.

I realized the woman was playing a role, but I, an eager
participant, welcomed the charade.  With arms still entangled
around each other we moved to the couch where we sat and kissed
intensely as I ran a hand up a cool, sleek thigh.  "Don't hurt
me," she moaned against my lips.  She aped a little girl voice
that did not fool me a bit, but I hoped she would remain in
character.

When I touched her pubic bush - - she wore no panties -- I
entered new territory, because I never thought of Sarah with hair
down there, although, of course, it would have been unusual if
she had none even at age thirteen.

There were limits to this posture's credulity, I knew, but I
wanted to pretend and realize a dream, even if it was a mere
sham.  I slipped to the floor and began kissing up an inner
thigh.

"What are you doing, Tommy?" she cried, and when my mouth reached
the bush, she exclaimed, "That's nasty!"  I could imagine Sarah's
protest.

She held my head tightly to her as I ate out the fragrant pussy;
she enjoying it, I suppose, in real time.  "Jesus!" she cried out
in climax, pulling at my hair.  I had heard Sarah call forth that
name, but only in church.

I squatted on the floor in front of her.  The skirt was at her
waist and she had ripped off the blouse to expose small breasts
that were pert only in my imagination.  Her face was for a moment
devilish, but quickly assumed an innocence appearance.  I undid
my trousers and pulled them down.

"Oh, my!" she exclaimed at the sight of my rigid cock.  "You'll
hurt me with that, Tommy.  You'll make a baby."

I rose on my knees and leaned forward between her legs.  The
penetration, of course, was easy, because she was a mature,
aroused woman.  She cried out as though it were her first time.
I abandoned myself to the fantasy and banged my darling Sarah
with lips pressed to hers, overwhelmed by an intense passion that
I had not felt in decades.  Her orgasm was spectacular:  a loud
yell presaged by scratching fingernails on my shoulders.  I
sucked her neck as I came.

Then it was over.

I felt foolish, squatting on my knees before a strange woman who
oozed my stuff onto the leather cushion.  Sarah had entirely
disappeared, replaced by an attractive older person who resembled
her.

"I enjoyed it," I said, struggling to my feet.  "But that's the
male's prerogative.  What's your excuse?"

"Passion," she said.  "Really feeling. It's the first time I've
felt it in a guy."

I zipped my trousers with eyes fixed on her almost naked body
lounging on the couch.

"You've been on a quest?" I asked.  "You've been seeking the
prefect fuck?"

"Don't give me that shit, Thomas!  You enjoyed it as much as I!"

"Yes I did, but I feel guilty about it.  I just don't understand
your motivation."

"Like I said, I wanted passion.   And when I saw your name on the
museum's invitation list, I knew I had a chance at something
special."

"What are you talking about?"

She straightened her skirt but the seeming adolescent chest
remained exposed.
"I never knew Sarah, of course, but she was my mother's cousin.
Your love affair with Sarah was a legend in our house.  'The
perfect romance,' my mom always said, 'broken by tragedy.'"

I looked at the ceiling and breathed deeply.  "I need a drink."

"Help yourself, Tom.  But don't think badly of me.  You believed
it, though, didn't you?  Just for a moment?"

"I guess I wanted to believe it.  It was good."

She grinned at me.  "I think so too.  Can you stay the night?  I
know some other stuff.  I'll suck my thumb for you."

That had been an endearing habit Sarah never managed to break.
"My god," I murmured, "did her family talk about her so much?"

"Not that much."  The woman smiled smugly.  "I found her diary."

"Her diary!  I didn't know she kept one."

"Neither did anyone else.  She told it everything.  She loved
you, Thomas Parkingham Ellsworth, with all her heart."

"Oh, my god!"

"As a teenager I lived in her old bedroom.  When I looked for a
spot to keep my secrets, I found hers there.  It is amazing how
much like her I am."  The woman rose to her feet and stood very
close to me -- lilacs mixed with female heat.  "Is it surprising
I should find you as attractive as she did?"

END

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