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From: bonkgirl <bonkgirl@NO-SPAMyahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Poles Apart - 01 - by bookgirl (f/F, rom, slow)
Date: Tue, 10 Jun 2003 10:10:06 -0400
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The following story you are about to read is my first attempt at
writing a multi-part piece of fiction based on my own fantasies but
which is inspired by the ideas generated in a recent online chat with
my dear friend, Sandy. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've
enjoyed writing it. - bookgirl Â(C) 2003

Poles Apart - 01  

"I don't know anything about lie detectors other than they scare the
hell out of people." - Richard Nixon

It was the first thing I remember seeing on entering the research
laboratory in the basement of the university Electrical Engineering
department building. The quote might not have even caught my eye
except for the fact it was the caption on a poster depicting a naked
woman, her arms and legs strapped into what looked like an electric
chair and with a tin pot on her head with lots of curly wires trailing
off everywhere. It could have been the poster for a 1970s B-grade
movie spoof on spies and interrogation but I couldn't see a title
anywhere on the poster. It might have even been quite humorous in that
radical art-house, student kind of way had it not been for the fact
the very reason for my being there was to be a guinea pig for a
project which, first enquiries said had been jointly organized by the
Engineering and Psychology departments. Even in my own days at
university I knew Psychology students in particular had some fairly
strange ideas about what was funny.

You might be asking yourself 'what would make a forty-ish year old
housewife from the suburbs volunteer to take part in any university
experiment?' The answer is as simple as it is complex: to do something
different.

Unlike many of the women in my neighborhood, most of whom had
memberships to exclusive Country Clubs and idled away the days playing
tennis and bragging to each other how rich their husbands were, I only
lived where I did because the house I was in had been bequeathed to
me, for reasons unknown, by a distant aunt. My husband had been
thrilled by our windfall but he didn't seem to realize that while we
might have lived in a grand house, we had no where near the income to
be considered in the same social class as all those living around us.
This offended me more because I had actually been raised in an
affluent family that had "old money", although my grandfather's
gambling habit saw to it that not much was left of it by the time I
was an adult. I attended all the best schools, and basically felt a
cut above my neighbors, most of whom were the second or even third
"trophy wives" for their wealthy husbands - secretaries and
receptionists of doctors and lawyers married by their employers.
Simply put, there might only have been fences between us, albeit it
towering ten foot solid concrete ones with security lighting, but I
may as well have lived a world away such was the differences between
their lives and mine. Simply put, I was starting to feel old, isolated
and alone, particularly during the day when my husband was off at
work.

For me, the biggest highlight during the day had become my trek out
the front to my mailbox. It wasn't that I got a lot of mail from
anybody - I got nothing but bills if I got anything at all. But
recently I had been getting a free newspaper dropped in the box once a
week and it had become something of an habitual exercise every Tuesday
to collect it and then while away the afternoon, sipping a gin and
tonic by the pool and reading all about the goings on by students at
the nearby university. It was there I saw a small notice, buried away
in the pictures of radical students at peace rallies and long, angry
rants against everything from capitalism to plastic inflatable pool
toys, seeking volunteers for some kind of research project. The
wording of it was quite vague except to say there would be some kind
of questionnaire involved and that details gathered from all
respondents would be kept confidential. It also stipulated that only
women were being sought at this stage and only those in my age range.
There was a telephone contact number and I rang it. Somebody named
Sandy who had been my initial point of contact. An interview had been
arranged, I'd been told, to determine whether or not I would make a
suitable candidate for their project. The details at this stage
remained a secret, but I didn't care. It sounded like fun and that was
one thing I felt my life was sorely missing.

The image of the naked woman I'd seen in the reception area was still
vividly etched on my mind when Sandy invited me to step into her
office. I remember it clearly because it was Sandy who first mentioned
it, making some kind of light-hearted joke about it and the shabby
conditions of the dĂ(C)cor generally before introducing herself formally.
I don't know what it was about her, but she was instantly likable.
There was a directness about her - a down-to-earth, lack of pretense
about her - which I hadn't really encountered in anybody since my own
days at university twenty years ago. Back when I was young and
carefree myself.

Sandy herself wasn't young and I guessed her to be in her late
twenties or early thirties. But she radiated enthusiasm and
youthfulness I felt to be magnetic in the way it affected me. Her
eyes, a sparkling emerald green, seemed to dance all over me as she
spoke. Such was the vitality she exuded. Straight away, for the first
time in many years, I didn't feel old! A person couldn't help but feel
young around her, and this was highly appealing for me given the
otherwise dullness of my life back at home.

I sat silently listening, enthralled by her to the point of not even
listening properly to what she was now explaining to me. She briefly
outlined her academic background - an electrical engineering graduate
herself with a Masters Degree as well as an impressive list of private
and governmental contract work to her credit. I didn't absorb the
details too well, but I was impressed. I looked at her admiringly and
thought 'so young, so smart, and so successful.' She was also, it
occurred to me, attractive although not in that bimbo fashion I saw
daily in my neighbors. She clearly worked every step of the way to get
to the position she was and I sensed, behind her jovial, effervescent
personality to be a woman of uncompromising determination. I had to
hold back the slight ping of regret that opportunities for women had
not been so available back when I'd graduated from university.

After this background briefing Sandy went on to start explaining the
project that, she said, was something special she first started
designing more than ten years ago. It had taken her that long to get
it off the drawing board, not with any governmental grants or even
university funding but through a source of private patrons who
supported the work she was doing. She paused at this stage, already
acknowledging that I looked like I might be a suitable candidate for
the project even though I'd not said a word beyond introducing myself
when I first walked into her office, and pushed a sizable document
across the desk to me.

It all looked so intimidating. The front cover of the document folder
was emblazoned with the word "Confidential" and the first page preface
explained I was about to sign a legally binding agreement in which
certain trade secrets and other information might be disclosed to me.
Sandy talked me through a lot of the legalese which, she said, merely
said I was about to sign a Confidentially Agreement. "It's sort of
like a marriage pre-nuptial," I think were her exact words. They never
existed as far as I know when I was married, but I knew the intent and
so I flipped through the twenty or so pages of the agreement, stopping
to sign the various places on pages which had been tagged with small,
yellow post-it stickers.

I felt a sense of relief when I finally signed the last page. When I
turned to hand it back to Sandy, who had by this stage moved around to
watch closely over my shoulder, she also appeared pleased I completed
the document. She did ask if I had any questions about what I'd signed
after I'd finished but I didn't. I knew what a confidentiality
contract was - it meant I had to keep the details of her project a
secret. Even a person like me who'd been locked away for years in the
suburbs knew what that was all about. And besides, I couldn't wait to
hear what those details were. I even remember feeling at that time
that I would guard Sandy's project as closely as she obviously guarded
it herself. I barely knew her and yet already felt compelled to do
whatever she asked. To even do more than she asked if it meant she
could rescue me from the mind-numbing tedium which was my life in the
suburbs.

Sandy didn't resume her seat behind her desk but instead rolled her
chair around so she could sit right beside me. She placed another
document on the desk in front of me along with a gold pen, elegantly
engraved with a Celtic type of floral design, and asked me to complete
my personal details in the spaces provided on the cover sheet of the
document. The pen felt heavy and comfortable in my hand, the ink
flowing thickly and smoothly as I wrote my name along with things such
as my address, phone number and other contact details. I included an
email address. Not my usual one which formed part of my ISP account
and which my husband used more often than I did for his own
work-related business but my own private one which I had with Yahoo.
I'm not sure what prompted me to do that, but I did, almost
instinctively. It was the account I used to keep in touch with a few
of my closest, most intimate friends. Not a big list of people, but
special people with whom I would share certain secrets about myself
that I couldn't share with anybody else. Not even my husband. It just
seemed right that Sandy should be on this list as well.

Turning the first page, I saw a multiple choice quiz with maybe forty
or fifty questions I was required to answer by placing a small cross
(x) in the "yes/no" boxes. The instruction from Sandy was brief and
simple. I was to answer each question as quickly as possible - with
the first thought that popped into my head. The quiz was to be timed
and she informed me I would have thirty minutes to complete it. It was
at that moment that I realized there'd have to be some commitment on
my part to actually work at being a guinea pig for Sandy's project. It
reminded me a little of my old university days and the exams I took. I
was always the good student and I did well on tests, but I usually
liked to have some warning of them first to give me time to mentally
prepare. I wasn't prepared for this quiz but I was yet to discover
just how unprepared I was. I was told there were no right or wrong
answers and that by having been asked to sit the test I'd already been
accepted as a participant in the project, but it still didn't make me
feel entirely comfortable. I've never been a competitive person at the
best of times, but I like to do well on tests and other mental
challenges.

All the while Sandy was explaining things to me I sat there staring
blankly down at the list of questions. It seemed to be asking things
like "do you like chocolate?" or "do you asparagus?" - simple yes/no
questions relating to various foods and drinks. I didn't even feel
Sandy's hand on my shoulder, but she was gently squeezing and telling
me to relax and not to get too worried about making any mistakes. It
was reassuring and I relaxed enough to take a deep breath and give her
a warm smile in return. Her hand seemed to linger a moment after that
and felt kind of strange in a way I still can't explain. It was a
friendly, affectionate gesture, but there was something else to it.
Something inexplicable. Sandy glanced at her watch and gave me the
signal to start with a jovial "off you go!"

I could feel Sandy's eyes on me as I answered the first few questions.
She still had one arm draped casually around the back of my chair and
the other lying relaxed in her lap. She watched me for a minute or so
and then stood up, moving somewhere behind me. After a few minutes of
studiously answering a multitude of questions about everything from my
favorite foods to fashions I like or dislike I came to the end of what
was the first section. There were many more pages following but the
instruction on the bottom of the page said I was to stop and ask for
direction regarding the next section.

Sandy was already standing right behind my chair. When she saw that
I'd completed the section she leaned forward behind me, grasping the
back top of chair so she could lean right over and speak with her face
tight beside mine. My reflex response was to suddenly move out of her
personal body space like a magnet might suddenly recoil away from
another of similar attractions. It was an immediate response
conditioned by an upbringing that frowned on close intimacy of any
kind that might lead to physical contact with another person.

That would have been my action if I hadn't detected an immediate and
unseen reaction by Sandy. It was instantaneous and all happened in the
blink of an eye, but from that moment she put her face close to mine,
almost cheek to cheek with both of us studying the quiz in front of
me, it was as if a thread had suddenly joined us and by moving I was
breaking that contact. Sandy turned her head just slightly so she
could see me out of the corner of her eye and asked if everything was
okay with me.

I recall thinking it was but it wasn't. I could feel my neck and ears
burning and knew I was blushing but I had no idea why? The office was
air conditioned and even felt cold when I first entered, but now I was
burning up like I was on fire. I laughed and made some feeble excuse
about being nervous about the test being responsible for the small
beads of perspiration I knew had dampened my upper lip, but it was a
lie. Sandy asked if I would like to take a short break - to go to the
bathroom and freshen up before continuing. I said I was okay and
didn't need to, but she persisted.

Again Sandy touched me, this time using both hands to squeeze the
muscles in my shoulders now so knotted and tense they ached. There was
no denying I was tense when she squeezed. Sandy could feel the knots
and her hands gently started massaging, making me initially hold my
breath and tense up even more before I remembered to breath and
exhaled slowly allowing the relaxing rubbing of her hands to sooth my
sore shoulders.

Sandy asked a number of times whether or not I was enjoying her
massage. It was impossible to say no although the best I could manage
to say otherwise was to moan softly. An appreciative moan accompanied
by a breathless "yes". I could literally feel the tension disappearing
as if it was being sucked out of my through her fingers. It was so
generous of her, I thought. So caring for somebody who didn't even
know me to be so considerate. I felt like I was melting beneath her
hands and it felt good.

I wanted to thank Sandy in some way, to show I how much I was
appreciating what she was doing in some demonstrative way more than
simply telling her. I don't know why I did it, but I reached up with
my hands, gently placed them on hers, and gave the backs of them a
little light rub of my own. "Thank you," I said. "I'm really enjoying
that." I was about to take my hands away again when she gently grabbed
my wrists and stopped me.

Sandy said it was an exercise she knew which would help relax my
muscles even more. I listened as she explained, relaxing my entire
arms and allowing her to lift them high up above my head. "Just
relax," she kept saying as she held them there for a long moment
before readjusting her grip on my wrists. I felt her changing hands
and then slowly, very gently, making a large arc in the air with my
arms as she lowered my hands again, forcing me to cross my arms behind
my head and eventually bend my elbows as well. It was a contorted
position and not one I could have gotten into on my own, but one that
was strangely pleasurable as well. I thought it was especially
pleasurable because I could still feel the tightening grip of her
hands around my wrists.

I was forced to put my chin on my chest once Sandy had pulled my arms
down to the limits of their flexing capabilities. I could only moan
softly when she asked if what she was feeling felt good. It did.
Sublimely so. I moaned again, this time as she slowly slipped her warm
hands up the undersides of my upper arms and gently pulled back on my
elbows. I arched my back slightly and relaxed with her manipulations
of me.

All the while she did this, Sandy continued quietly asking me whether
or not I was enjoying what she was doing. All of the muscles around my
shoulders as well as those under my arms and along the sides of my rib
cage felt stretched to the limit, but it was a pleasurable feeling
made more so when she released the pressure on my elbows and told me
to relax again.

It felt like my arms were floating in the air even though their dead
weight and gravity kept them dangling, my wrists crossed and together
behind my head. I was lost in a dreamy delirium from which I didn't
want to wake. My eyes remained closed even after I became consciously
aware Sandy had moved again, this time beside me, leaning in close
until I could feel her hot breath on the side of my face when she
spoke. She complimented the sweetness of my perfume. It was my
favorite. White Linen. Expensive and only worn for occasions I'd like
to be memorable. At that moment, when Sandy's breath was hottest
against my face - when I felt a tantalizing wave of pleasure raise the
skin of my entire body into a rash of goosebumps - I knew this was
going to turn out to be one of those occasions. 

[To be continued in part 02]

--
ser-en-dip-i-ty (n) The faculty of making fortunate discoveries by
accident.

"Serendip is not reached by plotting a course for it. Instead you must
set out in good faith and lose your bearings serendipitously" - from
The Sinbad Saga

http://profiles.yahoo.com/bonkgirl

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