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From: anais ninja <anais_ninja@hotmail.com>
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NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 22 Oct 2003 21:26:17 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Phoenix Rising - Chapter One - Eight Miles High (Mf teen oral)
Date: Thu, 23 Oct 2003 02:10:04 -0400
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Phoenix Rising
 
 
(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html 
 
Note:  This is my story.  The names and details have been changed to 
protect the privacy of those involved.  Some of this account has been 
reconstructed from memory, but most of it has been based on a journal I
kept during these years. 

This is a sequel to _Exile_, which can be found on my asstr-mirror.org site:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/exile/index.html
 

                             * * * 


 
Chapter One - Eight Miles High (Mf teen oral)
 
 
January 1982 
 
The woman at the counter called my flight.  I stood up from the row of 
molded plastic chairs, slipping my backpack over my shoulder, and
headed for the gate, presenting my boarding pass to the woman in the
blue skirt suit.  She smiled as she handed my stub back to me, flashing
two rows of perfect white teeth. 
 
The plane wasn't even half full.  I walked back through the aisle and 
found my seat, next to a window behind the wing, stuffing my bag in the
overhead compartment before sitting down and watching my fellow 
travelers file in and find their assigned seats.  They were mostly men 
and women in suits, carrying briefcases and small bags.  The women all 
smoothed their skirts beneath them before sitting down; the men tugging
at the knees of their trousers, some crossing their legs or reaching 
into their attache cases for folders, magazines, legal pads and pens. 
 
I stood up and retrieved my backpack from the overhead bin, fishing out
my journal and a pen and stuffing the bag beneath the seat in front of 
me.  I'd brought a book -- _Fear of Flying_ by Erica Jong, an ironic 
gift from Helen -- and I pulled that out, too, placing it on the seat 
next to me.  I read a couple of pages, but I couldn't get any traction;
I kept slipping over the words like a car on an icy road.  I put the 
book down and looked out the window, watching planes land and take off,
looking out over the harbor and the Boston skyline, watching the 
progress of a cargo ship through the choppy grey water. 
 
As I watched a small yellow tractor pulling a train of silver cargo 
containers across the taxiway, my thoughts turned to the last few days.
 Helen and I had spent a couple of days shopping for my trip, buying
new clothes, a pair of bathing suits, a floppy hat and sunscreen, a new
suitcase, sunglasses, and other accessories that I might need for a
trip to Phoenix.  I thought it might be hot there, like Florida in the 
summer, but the newspaper said otherwise, low- to mid-sixties during
the day, forties at night, so I'd packed a couple of sweaters as well. 
 
I was reaching for my journal when a young man in a dark blue uniform 
stopped at my row of seats, checking the seat number against his 
boarding pass. 
 
"Hi," he said, as he opened the overhead compartment and slipped his 
briefcase and coat inside.  "I think this is my seat." 
 
"Oh, sorry," I said, gathering my journal and book from the middle seat
cushion. 
 
"No, don't bother," he said.  "I can sit on the aisle."  He removed his
peaked cap and placed it with his briefcase and sat down in the aisle 
seat, unbuttoning his jacket and crossing his legs.  Mid-twenties,
tall, handsome, closely cropped blond hair, a row of colored ribbons
over his heart.  He smiled and pulled a small notepad from his pocket,
jotting down some notes in longhand as we waited to get underway. 
 
As the plane backed away from the gate, a voice over the PA speakers 
said "Prepare for cross-check" as a male flight attendant walked down 
the aisle, counting passengers.  There was a soft chime and the "FASTEN
SEATBELTS" light came on.  I reached behind me, looking for the belt, 
fumbling with the buckle. 
 
"Let me help you with that," the young man said, reaching into my lap 
and fastening the belt.  "First flight?" 
 
"No, not my first," I said.  "But it's been a while."  I had taken a 
plane with my mother, about ten years earlier, when I was only five.  
We'd flown from Florida to Chicago to visit her parents, who were still
alive then. 
 
He seemed about to say something else, but the plane started to move, 
creeping backwards before turning and lumbering down the ramp towards 
the runway.  A flight attendant stood at the front of the cabin and
gave the standard safety instructions: oxygen masks, flotation devices,
how to survive a worst-case scenario.  I seemed to be the only person
paying attention to her, and when I pulled the laminated card from the
pouch behind the seat in front of me, the man next to me chuckled under
his breath. 
 
"What's so funny?" I asked him, after the attendant finished speaking. 
 
"Nothing," he said.  "Just that I've never seen anyone read that."  He 
pointed to the instruction card, still peeking from the pouch. 
 
"I suppose you know it all by heart, working for the airline and all,"
I said. 
 
"Airline?  Oh, right," he said.  "Air Force."  He turned the lapel of 
his blazer towards me, showing the silver "U.S." that was pinned to it.
 Beneath the lapel, on the opposite side of his chest from the ribbons,
was a black plastic nameplate with "MITCHELL" picked out in white 
capital letters. 
 
"Mitchell.  Is that your first name?" I asked. 
 
"No, my last.  Robby," he said, holding out his hand. 
 
"Anne," I said, shaking his hand.  Something made me say "Anne" instead
of "Annie".  I wasn't trying to be formal; "Anne" just sounded more 
grown-up. 
 
"Pleasure to meet you, Anne," he said.  "Are you a student?" 
 
"Sort of," I replied.  "School hasn't started for me yet.  You're a 
pilot?"  I had just noticed the silver wings above his ribbons. 
 
"No, flight crew," he said.  "My eyesight is less than perfect.  I was 
an 'ewo'." 
 
"Ewo?" 
 
"Electronic warfare officer," Robby replied.  "Before I was grounded." 
 
"Grounded?" 
 
"Medical reasons.  Had to punch out.  Injured my back." 
 
"Punch out?"  I started to get that feeling I'd had when Bradley and I 
discussed the guardianship petition or the details of Julia's trust, 
that you're listening to someone speak English but you still can't 
understand what they're saying. 
 
"Ejected," Robby said.  "You're strapped into a seat one moment and a 
second later you're in the air without an airplane.  Then your 'chute 
opens and you float to earth.  More like a controlled fall, really." 
 
"Why did you have to eject?"  I asked.  The sound of the airliner's 
engines increased in volume, and I could barely make out his reply. 
 
"We lost part of the tail," he said.  I could feel the blood draining 
from my face.  I'd been slightly nervous since I'd boarded the plane
and now I could feel an icy ball of panic in the pit of my stomach. 
 
"Don't worry," Robby said.  "Flying is safer than walking.  
Statistically, that is." 
 
"Um, okay," I said, gripping the armrests as our plane began to roll 
down the runway.  I looked out the window, watching the black tire 
streaks on the concrete runway blur as we gained speed.  The interior
of the plane made loud plastic creaking noises as we rolled over a bump
and then, suddenly, the ride smoothed out as we became airborne.  I
felt the pull of gravity inside me, like the ascent of an elevator
inside a tall office tower, only more so. 
 
Despite my anxiety, my apprehension over flying, I liked this feeling. 
I always loved going fast, roller coasters, bicycles, sledding
downhill, even a simple playground swing set.  Feeling the tug of
gravity in my belly, the wind in my face, teetering on the edge of
control; the essence of childhood, yet it felt almost sexual at times. 
I relaxed my grip on the armrests and looked out the window again. 
Below us, Boston seemed tilted at a crazy angle, the choppy gray waters
of the harbor becoming a fine fabric, marred only by the v-shaped wakes
of ships and boats. 
 
"What was that?" I said, gripping the armrests once again as I heard a 
mechanical whine and a loud thumping sound coming from beneath my feet.
 Without even thinking, I reached across the empty middle seat for 
Robby's hand. 
 
"Landing gear," Robby said.  "Nothing to worry about."  He held my hand
in his own, gently squeezing it. 
 
"Sorry," I said, releasing my death grip on his fingers.  I felt a
blush spreading across my face. 
 
"It's okay," he said, still holding my hand.  I didn't let go until a 
few minutes later, when the plane had leveled off, flying above the 
broken clouds.  The sound of the engines decreased as we reached our 
cruising altitude and the "FASTEN SEATBELTS" and "NO SMOKING" lights 
went off with a soft chime.  The pilot announced our speed and
altitude, as well as our arrival time in Phoenix, where he said it was
a balmy 64 degrees.  A pair of flight attendants pushed their steel
carts down the aisles, serving drinks and snacks.  I asked for coffee,
Robby had a soda, and we talked. 
 
Robby had loved flying.  The excitement, the camaraderie, even the 
danger.  That he was serving his country and following in his father's 
footsteps was icing on the cake.  Being grounded for medical reasons
had been like clipping the wings of an eagle.  He'd undergone over a
year of painful physical therapy and a number of operations, hoping to
be reinstated to flight status. 
 
Over the course of that agonizing period, he'd pursued his masters 
degree at Caltech, and now he was a doctoral candidate at M.I.T., 
studying some of the same electronic systems he'd operated as a member 
of a flight crew.  He briefly described some of his research, and the 
dissertation he was currently working on, peppering his description
with so many acronyms that my head began to swim again.  I listened and
nodded, trying to follow all of the technical terms.  It was his voice 
that held me, though, deep and well-modulated like the pilot of our 
airliner, with just a hint of a southwestern twang, that official 
airmen's and astronauts' accent. 
 
"I must be boring you with all this," Robby said. 
 
"No, no.  It's really very interesting," I replied. 
 
"What about you?" he asked.  "Where are you going to school?  B.C.?  
B.U.?" 
 
"Actually, I'm still in high school.  But I graduate next year," I
said, blushing as I told this egregious lie.  My graduation wouldn't be
for another three and a half years. 
 
"Really?" he said.  "Could've fooled me."  I smiled at that, wondering 
if he was just humoring me.  I could have passed for sixteen, maybe 
seventeen with judicious use of makeup.  "Have you picked out a college
yet?" 
 
"Haven't decided," I said.  "B.U. looks good, though."  Helen had
driven me through Boston University's long urban campus on the way to
the therapist's office in Brookline.  It wasn't so much that the campus
looked good, but the students I'd seen walking along Commonwealth
Avenue or waiting for trolleys were really cute, guys and girls, just
about all of them. 
 
Our conversation was interrupted as the flight attendants served lunch,
some form of lasagna the size of a business card, served on a plastic 
tray, with plastic-wrapped utensils, a plastic-wrapped salad, and a 
plastic package of condiments and dressings.  As Robby and I picked 
through the plastic wrappings and ate our tepid meal, I told him about 
how I was flying to Phoenix to see my father, whom I hadn't seen in
over a decade. 
 
That was about all I could tell him about myself.  There was so much 
more, like the year I'd spent on the streets, servicing men for money, 
or Cami and Delia, the transsexuals I lived with before Bradley and 
Helen found me and brought me into their family.  Even further back was
a well of sadness, the deaths of my mother, my stepfather and 
stepbrothers, a deep hole of sorrow I could only drink from when I was 
alone with my thoughts and feelings.  As the flight attendants
collected our trays and served drinks, I tried to deflect the
conversation away from my life, asking Robby to look out the window and
tell me where we were.  He scooted over into the empty seat between us
and leaned over me, looking through the broken clouds at the verdant
landscape below us. 
 
"Hmmm...looks like Ohio or Indiana I think," he said.  "Familiar, 
though.  I was stationed at Wright-Patterson for a few months.  Not too
far from here." 
 
Robby's face was close to mine, and I could smell his after shave.  
There was a little nick on his cleft chin, a shaving cut, and it was
all I could do to keep from kissing it.  He leaned back in his seat and
looked at his watch, his eyes moving upward as he did a mental 
calculation of time and airspeed. 
 
"Would you excuse me for a minute?" I asked.  I needed to use the 
lavatory, as that first cup of coffee had worked its way through my 
kidneys.  He stood up in the aisle, taking this chance to remove his 
jacket and store it in the overhead compartment. 
 
It took just a thought, a mere notion, to make me reach into my
backpack and pull out the beaded purse that held my diaphragm and
spermicidal jelly.  Robby smiled and stepped aside as I made my way out
of the seat, heading towards the rear of the plane, past the galley and
into one of the tiny bathrooms in the back. 
 
Something I'd read in that book, _Fear of Flying_, stuck in my mind.  
The author describes something called a "zipless fuck", sex with a 
stranger, no strings attached, even giving an example in the form of a 
short story in which a widow and a strange man come together in a train
compartment somewhere in Europe and then part without exchanging a
word.  It was a potent bit of writing, one that I'd cherish when I was
alone in Carrie's bed, on rare nights when I wasn't sleeping with
Bradley and Helen.  I'd imagine myself as the widow, dressed in black,
my breasts full like hers, a small gold cross nestled between them. 
Sometimes the stranger looked like Bradley, sometimes like Mr.
Sheffield, the man who paid me to pretend that I was his daughter. 
Sometimes he had a different face, someone I'd seen in a mall or on
television. 
 
I squirted jelly into my diaphragm and folded it, slipping it inside my
sex.  I was moist just thinking about this, the story, my fantasy, 
giving myself to Robby.  Washing my hands in the tiny sink, I looked 
around and wondered if there was enough room for what I wanted to do. 
 
Robby stood up to let me slip back in my seat.  The cabin lights had 
dimmed and small video screens had emerged from the ceiling, with the 
airline's logo on each one. 
 
"They're starting the movie," Robby said.  "I bought a headset for you.
 I wasn't sure if you wanted to watch." 
 
"Thanks," I said, taking the plastic-wrapped headphones from him and 
plugging them into the armrest.  They resembled a little stethoscope, 
two earpieces attached to hollow tubes that conducted the sound from 
speakers in the armrest.  It was loud and tinny until I figured out how
to turn down the volume.  A dial in the armrest let you select music or
the movie soundtrack. 
 
"You're not going to watch?" I asked Robby.  He had a book open on his 
tray table and was making notes in the margin with a mechanical pencil.
 
"No, I've seen this one already," he said. 
 
"Oh," I said.  "Could you do me a favor?" 
 
"Sure." 
 
"There's a blanket in there," I said, pointing towards the overhead
bin.  "Could you get it for me?" 
 
"Sure thing," he said, half-standing in his seat and opening the bin, 
reaching inside for the blanket, blue wool with the airline's name 
printed on it.  I thanked him and unfolded it on my lap. 
 
"Chilly?" he asked. 
 
"A bit," I said.  "Would you mind...?" 
 
"Mind what?"  Robby asked. 
 
"Would you mind if I sat next to you?" I said.  "Just until I warm up a
bit." 
 
"No.  Not at all," he said, smiling.  "In fact, these lift up."  Robby 
swiveled the armrest next to him upward until it fit flush between the 
seats.  I did the same with the one next to me and scooted over next to
him, lifting my legs on to the window seat and snuggling against
Robby's shoulder.  He plugged my headphones into his armrest and went
back to his book. 
 
The movie was a James Bond flick, though with Roger Moore instead of 
Sean Connery.  Moore was cute, no doubt about it, but there was 
something about Sean Connery that pushed all my buttons.  That accent, 
that perfect combination of sophistication and toughness; he made Moore
seem delicate by comparison.  I suppose Connery was getting a bit long 
in the tooth to play Bond, but even so, I would have gladly taken the 
place of any of the women in his movies.  Oh, James... 
 
The clouds below us had thickened, and every so often I'd glance out
the window to look at the puffy white ocean beneath us and then return
my attention to the movie.  Every couple of minutes there would be a
slight bump, making the ice in peoples' drinks clink in their plastic
cups.  A chime in my headphones sounded, and the pilot's voice came on
over the sound of the movie, announcing that there was a bit of
turbulence and that he was turning the "FASTEN SEATBELT" sign again.  I
swung my feet off of the seat and Robby helped me into my seatbelt
before buckling his own.  I pulled the blanket back on my lap as he put
his book away in his briefcase and lifted his tray table back in the
upright position. 
 
There was another thump and then the plane dropped like an elevator, 
sending my stomach up into my throat.  I grabbed Robby's hand again, 
clutching his arm with my other hand, clinging to him as the plane 
recovered the altitude it had lost. 
 
"Don't worry," he said, gently squeezing my hand.  "Just a bit of 
turbulence.  Looks like there might be some thunder storms out there." 
 
"If you say so," I said.  I pulled off the headset and snuggled closer 
to his shoulder. 
 
"You okay?" he asked. 
 
"Yes, thanks," I replied.  I'd gotten seasick on Ramon's boat when it 
was just tied up at a pier, but that was mainly because of the smell of
diesel fuel and the reek of fish.  I didn't feel nauseous, despite the 
jostling, but just in case I made note of the nearest airsickness bag, 
peeking out of the pouch behind the seat in front of me. 
 
Our bumpy ride smoothed out a few minutes later, and I relaxed my grip 
on Robby's hand, still holding it, though.  He had nice strong hands, 
and I fondled the jewel in his class ring before intertwining my
fingers with his, slowly pulling his hand into my lap, letting it rest
on my bare thigh.  I was wearing a short, flouncy black skirt, with a
dropped waist and three tiers of overlapping ruffles, a popular style
back then, at least until Cyndi Lauper ran that look into the ground a
year or two later.  It was still one of my favorite skirts at that
time, sexy without looking too tight and revealing like the clothes I'd
worn on the street. 
 
When Robby's hand came in contact with my thigh, I could feel him turn 
his head, and he made an attempt to move his hand back.  A feeble,
half- hearted attempt despite his strength, and I unfolded his fingers
from mine, placing his palm on the inside of my thigh and guiding it
under my skirt. 
 
"Anne..." he said, looking around to see if anyone was watching.  "We 
shouldn't..." 
 
"Shhh..." I whispered, running my other hand over his chest, his 
shoulder, his neck, gently turning his cheek until we were facing.  
"Please kiss me..." 
 
"Anne..." he said again, hesitating for a moment as our faces moved 
closer and closer.  I tilted my head and closed my eyes, feeling his 
lips touch mine, opening my mouth to accept his tongue, feeling it melt
into mine.  I guided his hand up my thigh, towards the heat between my 
legs, feeling his fingers brush against the crotch of my panties. 
 
I brought Robby's other hand to my breasts, and he gently cupped and 
squeezed them through my silk blouse.  Undoing a couple of buttons, I 
guided his hand inside my shirt, letting him fondle my small tits 
through my bra.  As he circled my nipples through the thin lacy cotton,
I put my hand on his thigh, slowly moving up towards his crotch until I
could feel his hardness, tracing the outline of his cock with my 
fingers. 
 
We kissed quietly, slowly, gently exploring each other as the rest of 
the passengers on the plane watched the movie or read their in-flight 
magazines.  Even though the plane was barely half-full, I wouldn't have
cared if it had been crowded with travelers.  I wanted this young, 
handsome stranger more than anything right now, and as I squirmed in my
seat I thought about having him right there on the striped blue 
cushions. 
 
"Count to a hundred and follow me," I said, breaking off our kiss.  I 
straightened my clothing and buttoned my blouse before getting up and 
stepping over his legs into the aisle.  A middle-aged man a couple of 
rows back glanced up at me and then returned his attention to the
movie.  I walked to the back of the plane, swaying my slim hips,
knowing that Robby was watching me.  Choosing the last lavatory on the
left, I went inside, locking the door behind me.  The lights and
ventilator hummed to life as I slid the indicator to
"OCCUPIED/OCCUPADO". 
 
I checked myself in the mirror, brushing my hair out with my fingers.  
It had grown back in the year since I'd stayed at the shelter, and I 
kept it trimmed so it fell just above my shoulders, with blonde bangs 
framing my face.  Wishing I had brought my lipstick with me, I counted 
to one hundred under my breath.  I'd only gotten as far as seventy-two 
when there was a soft knocking at the lavatory door.  Sliding the lock 
open dimmed the lights.  Robby stepped inside, locking the door behind 
him.  Without a word, we kissed again. 
 
There was barely enough room to stand, and he was so tall I had to
stand on my toes.  Our lips met, our hands roaming over each other's
body, our legs intertwined.  I could feel his hardness through his blue
trousers, and I ground my thigh against him, softly moaning as he
unbuttoned my blouse and slipped his hand inside it.  Robby slipped his
other hand under my skirt, cupping my bottom and pulling me up, higher,
until my feet were off the floor. 
 
I reached between us and began to unbuckle his belt, unbuttoning his 
trousers, pulling his zipper down and pushing his pants off of his
hips.  Robby let me down, back on to my feet.  I slid down his chest
and sat down on the lid of the toilet, pulling his boxer shorts down
with me, freeing his cock from its confinement.  In the cramped
confines of this lavatory, the tip of his penis was barely a tongue
length away from my lips. 
 
Compared to his overall height, his cock seemed of average length and 
girth, but here in this tiny space, where it was so close to my face, 
his manhood seemed huge.  I took it in my hands and slowly wrapped my 
fingers around his shaft, extending my tongue to lick the shiny smear
of pre-ejaculate on his glans.  He gasped as I opened my lips and
accepted him inside my mouth.  As my lips sunk lower, towards a nest of
curly auburn pubes that were a few shades darker than his dirty blond
hair, Robby reached down and gently caressed my cheek, now bulging with
his hard meat. 
 
I've sucked cock for any number of reasons: for love, for money, to
make a man hard, to make him come when I was too sore to fuck, to clean
our juices from him afterwards, to wake him up, to put him to sleep. 
This was one of those times when I sucked a man's cock so I could watch
his face, to see his pleasure, to know the effect I had on his body. 
To control him, not in the manipulative sense, not in the sense of
bondage, though there was certainly an element of discipline involved. 
The closest analogy I could think of was that of horse and rider, that
by using my mouth and hands I was able to guide him towards his
pleasure at the pace of my choosing, the way an equestrian steers his
mount with reins and stirrups. 
 
I put Robby through his paces, starting slowly, pulling my lips back 
over his shaft and lingering before sinking back down, swirling my 
tongue over his swollen glans each time.  I cupped his balls with one 
hand and used the other to encircle the base of his cock, holding his 
skin taut.  Then I picked up the pace, a gentle canter, using my tongue
to concentrate on the underside of his shaft, a spot just past the
head, an area that I knew would feel good for him.  
 
Robby began to move his hips as I sucked him, just barely, just enough 
to make his shaft glide over my lips a bit faster.  I immediately
slowed down, sucking him harder, immobilizing him, stopping his hips. 
I gradually sped up again, lashing him with my tongue as I sucked him,
and his hips resumed their gently rocking until I slowed down again,
more suction, more friction, lightly grazing my teeth over his shaft. 
He gasped again, closed his eyes, and stayed perfectly still as I
gobbled his thick tool. 
 
I began to suck him faster again, working my way up to a full gallop, 
when he tugged at my arms, bringing me to my feet and kissing me on the
lips; a hard kiss, a wet kiss, a passionate kiss.  Robby lifted me by
my hips and sat me down on a small shelf that ran along the bulkhead 
opposite the sink and mirror, kissing me again as he slipped his hands 
under my skirt and tugged at my underwear.  I put my hands on the shelf
and lifted my bottom so he could pull off my panties, and he slid the 
lacy white bikini down my thighs and off my legs.  Then Robby knelt on 
the tiny floor and pushed his face under my skirt, kissing my hungry
sex before probing me with a warm, wet tongue. 
 
I lifted my skirt around my waist so I could watch him eat me, hoisting
my legs and draping them over his shoulders.  I could see our
reflection in the mirror on the opposite bulkhead, my clothes askew,
his head between my legs, his closely-cropped blond hair shining as it
moved up and down, back and forth, side to side.  I felt my own
pleasure begin to build, the tension in my belly that had grown while I
had sucked him becoming a nest of butterflies, and then a flock of
doves, compounded by the danger of getting caught and the sheer
excitement of a new lover. 
 
He ate me out well, with a man's strength and boldness as opposed to a 
woman's patience and finesse.  Robby had no trouble finding my clit, 
either, unlike some men I'd known, and he could have easily made me
come right then, had I not tugged at his shoulder to make him stop.  I
wanted to come, but with his big beautiful cock inside me. 
 
"I have a condom," Robby whispered as he got up from his knees. 
 
"We won't need one," I said, pulling him closer and kissing him on the 
lips.  I reached down between us and took hold of his tool, guiding it 
between my legs, towards my cleft, rubbing the tip over my moist labia.
 Robby pushed forward with his hips and his glans penetrated my lips, 
finding my hungry hole and slowly filling it.  As the rest of his shaft
pressed inside me, I wrapped my arms around his neck, my legs around
his waist, and scooted closer to the edge of the shelf.  Robby nuzzled
my neck, kissing and nibbling me as he cupped my bare bottom, pulling
me in to meet his first thrust. 
 
"So good...," he murmured, pulling back and lingering with just his 
glans inside me before thrusting inward again. 
 
"Fill me," I whispered, urging him to go deeper within my passage, to 
take me completely, totally.  I watched our reflection over his 
shoulder, seeing his shirt tail flap over his butt, his thighs tensing 
with every thrust.  I dug my heels into his ass and urged him to pump
me faster, to bring me to my release.  Perched on this narrow shelf, my
ass in his strong hands, I wasn't able to meet his thrusts.  But for 
spurring him on with my heels, I was under his control now. 
 
"Faster...," I whispered, "...harder...".  Robby eagerly complied, his 
column of flesh stirring my little honeypot quicker, deeper, making me 
tremble with delight in his hands.  I began to moan as that feeling 
began to spread from my belly, and I pressed my mouth against his 
shoulder to muffle myself, hoping I couldn't be heard outside the 
lavatory. 
 
There was bump of turbulence, then another, and then one more.  I 
tightened my hold on Robby, clinging to him as he slid me back and
forth on his pole.  Was it the weather?  The plane?  I didn't care.  We
could fall to Earth in a ball of fire, and so long as I could feel him
inside me during my last moments I would die a happy girl. 
 
And that was it, that was what sent me over the edge.  On top of the 
danger, the excitement, and above all the feeling of his cock in my 
hungry pussy, the thought that I could die fucking this handsome blond 
warrior of the sky made me come, long and hard.  I clamped my lips down
on his shoulder, but even so, my cry of passion filled the intimate 
little space.  My limbs quivered, shuddered, stiffened in our embrace
as my orgasm took control of my body, making my cunny spasm around his 
thrusting tool.  I clamped my kegel muscles down on his shaft as he 
buried himself inside me, the ridge of his pubic bone pressing against 
my swollen clit, sending me over a second, higher peak. 
 
"Robby...Robby...come for me...," I urged him, running my hands over
his broad back, relaxing my legs around his waist.  I tightened myself 
around his tool again, squeezing him with my pussy, trying to bring him
to his climax.  There was a hesitation in his thrusts, just a hitch in 
the rhythm of his hips, and he began to twitch inside me, filling me 
with his hot juice. 
 
"Anne," Robby sighed, kissing my neck, his hips slowing down, his grip 
on my bottom relaxing.  "Anne..."  I turned my head and found his lips 
with my own, kissing him, our tongues melting together as his thrusting
ceased.  He lowered me back down to the shelf, his softening cock 
slipping from my cleft.  I felt his semen begin to ooze from my sex, 
pooling on the beige plastic shelf. 
 
Robby straightened up and I leaned my head against his chest, listening
to his breathing, his heartbeat, as he gently stroked my hair.  There 
was another rumble of turbulence, and a "FASTEN SEATBELT" sign next to 
the door came on. 
 
"We should get back," Robby said, reaching down to pull up his
trousers. 
 
"You go first," I said.  "I'll follow." 
 
"Okay," he said, buckling his belt and kissing me.  I locked the door 
behind him and began to straighten my clothing, buttoning my blouse, 
finding my panties on the floor and pulling them on, wiping up the
sperm that had dripped on to the shelf.  Robby's cum was oozing from my
messy slit, so I made an improvised mini-pad from a paper towel and
slipped it into the crotch of my undies.  Before I left the lavatory, I
checked my skirt for telltale stains.  Fortunately, it had been bunched
up around my waist while we'd been fucking. 
 
I placed my hand on the lock, wondering what I'd find when I left the 
lavatory.  I'd tried my best to muffle my cries, nearly biting Robby's 
shoulder in the process.  But the door was thin, and someone could have
heard us.  Would the pilot be waiting for me?  Did we break some sort
of FAA regulation?  Would there be a group of flight attendants in the 
galley, scowling at me as I passed by? 
 
There was no one in the aisle outside the bathroom, and the one 
attendant in the galley didn't bother to look up.  I walked back to my 
seat. 
 
"The stewardess came by when you were still in there," Robby said, 
standing up so I could slide into my seat.  "I didn't know if you
wanted anything.  Is soda okay?" 
 
"That's fine, thanks," I said, sitting down and taking his hand.  
"That's sweet of you."  Robby glanced around and gave me a quick kiss
on the cheek before the flight attendant arrived with our drinks,
pouring a half can of soda into two clear plastic cups filled with ice,
and placing a miniature bottle of bourbon on Robby's tray. 
 
"Could I get one of those?" I asked her.  She looked at me and then at 
Robby. 
 
"It's okay," he said.  "She's with me."  The flight attendant smiled
and pulled another one of the tiny bottles from a shelf on her cart. 
Robby tipped her with a couple of bills pulled from his shirt pocket
and she moved on down the aisle.  We poured the bourbon into our cups
of Coke and stirred them with plastic swizzle sticks embossed with the
airline's logo. 
 
"To the 'Mile High Club'," Robby whispered, lifting his cup for a
toast. 
 
"Mile High Club?" I asked. 
 
"If you've had sex in an aircraft, you've joined the 'Mile High Club',"
he said.  "Actually, it should be the 'Eight Mile High Club', 
considering our present altitude." 
 
"To the Eight Mile High Club," I said, clinking my plastic cup against 
his.  As we sat together and sipped our drinks, I snuggled against him 
and looked out the window.  The storm clouds had passed, and the
verdant landscape below us began to yield to buff colored hills, broken
by the occasional forest. 
 
"Oklahoma, maybe the Texas Panhandle," Robby said, nearly reading my 
mind as I wondered where we were. 
 
"What a big country this is," I said.  It's one thing to look at a map,
but it's entirely different to fly its breadth, even more so to drive 
across it, I thought.  I was too young to remember flying to Chicago 
with my mother, but I remembered driving up the East Coast with Ramon 
and my stepbrothers, watching the palms of Florida give way to pines, 
then oaks and maples as we neared Maine.  It had taken most of three 
days. 
 
I held Robby's hand and leaned against his shoulder as he described his
first flight as an EWO, sitting in the upper deck of an Air Force 
bomber, behind the pilot and co-pilot as they flew north from
Louisiana, over the country, over Canada, almost to the North Pole to
what he called the "fail safe point", carrying a load of nuclear
weapons, waiting for the coded message that would send them into the
Soviet Union. 
 
"Were you scared?" I asked.  Julia had taken me a few times to see
films at  the little cinema in Coopersport, a place that mostly
screened foreign movies and older Hollywood flicks.  One night we saw
"Dr. Strangelove", a movie that left me baffled, as most of the black
humor had gone right over my head.  But now I could picture Robby in
the cockpit, in his flight suit and helmet, his face glued to a radar
screen as Soviet missiles homed in on the plane. 
 
"Not really.  Well, a little," he admitted.  "They train you hard, 
drills and proficiency tests and stuff like that, so when something 
happens you just do your job.  Truth is, flying is pretty boring most
of the time." 
 
"I don't believe you," I laughed. 
 
"It's true," he replied.  "'Hours of boredom mixed with seconds of 
terror' is what our instructor used to say." 
 
I snuggled closer to him, trying to resist the urge to shudder.  War 
scared me, nuclear weapons especially, ever since grade school when
we'd have "duck and cover" drills in class or when our teacher would
march us into the gym, our school's fallout shelter.  The Cuban Missile
Crisis had occurred over five years before I was born, but in Florida
the Cold War hysteria had lingered. 
 
Looking out the window, the hills began to yield to desert, copper and 
crimson colored in the late afternoon sunlight, broken only by purplish
ridges and only the occasional patch of green.  Robby had his arm
around me, and I leaned my head against his chest, listening to his
breathing. 
 
This was beyond the definition of the "zipless fuck", the after-sex 
cuddle, the closeness, the feeling of his gentle caresses.  True, I'd 
probably never see him again after we landed, but at that moment I felt
like I'd known him forever, and that we'd always be together.  I closed
my eyes, just to rest them, but I ended up drifting off to sleep in his
embrace. 
 
We were flying in my dream, in the bomber from "Dr. Strangelove". 
Robby was at a radar console, calling out the range of incoming
missiles.  I was on the floor of the cockpit, holding on for dear life
as the plane jinked and banked between mountains, dodging missiles that
looked like rocket-propelled telephone poles.  Major Kong was at the
controls, and he turned his head and barked an order to me,
incomprehensible words, a jargon I couldn't understand.  Somehow, I
knew what I had to do. 
 
I was in the bomb bay of the airplane, kicking at the clamshell doors, 
climbing on top of the nuclear weapon and reaching for a severed wire, 
brilliant blue sparks flying past my head.  I could smell the acrid 
stench of burning hair from where the sparks landed on my shoulders, 
barely able to reach the two parts of the wire and twist the ends 
together. 
 
And then I was falling, falling, falling, my legs clamped around the 
bomb, dropping towards the tundra below.  I clung to the weapon, and 
suddenly the cold white-painted metal became skin, bumps and veins and 
follicles, warm and soft and hard at the same time.  I opened my mouth 
to scream... 
 
The chime of the "FASTEN SEATBELTS" sign roused me from my nap, and the
sound of the airliner's engines changed, lowering in pitch and volume. 
 
"We're landing soon," Robby said, his arm still around me. 
 
"Oh.  How long was I asleep?" 
 
"Less than an hour," he said.  "You seemed like you were having a dream
or something." 
 
"Yeah, it was weird."  Just a fragment remained.  I straightened up in 
my seat and buckled my seatbelt as the pilot announced our arrival in 
Phoenix.  Just a few minutes more.  I took Robby's hand in mine and 
squeezed it. 
 
 From our rapidly decreasing altitude, Phoenix looked like a patchwork
of green and brown squares under a hazy sky.  The plane banked and then
leveled off again, and I heard a mechanical whine beneath my feet. 
 
"Flaps," Robby said, pointing out the window to the wing, showing me
how they extended from the trailing edge.  The sound of the engines
changed once again, and there was another series of thumps below the
cabin floor.  "Landing gear," he said, starting a running commentary on
what was happening.  "Turning for final approach...throttle back...nose
up..." 
 
The houses below seemed to get larger, white squares on winding streets
contained within square tracts, aqua and teal dots that became swimming
pools as we descended.  In the distance was a cluster of larger 
buildings, downtown Phoenix, and a bluish ridge that seemed to emerge 
from the earth like the spine of some massive animal. 
 
The ground seemed to go by faster as we approached, with the closest 
features turning into a blur of green and brown and white.  Then we 
passed the perimeter of the airport, a long chain link fence, a series 
of metal towers with flashing lights, and then the gray concrete of the
runway, black streaks of rubber and unbroken yellow lines.  There was a
squeal of rubber against cement and the engines revved up again. 
 
"Thrust reversers," Robby said.  Deceleration made the seatbelt dig
into my lap, but it abated a moment later.  We were on the ground
again, taxiing slowly towards the terminal.  It felt strange, this slow
movement, and I felt like my blood was still racing along at 500 miles 
per hour. 
 
"Here's my address in Boston," Robby said, writing in his notepad.  "If
you feel like writing or something."  He tore out the page and handed
it to me. 
 
"Thanks," I said, folding the piece of paper and slipping it into the 
pages of my journal.  "I'd like that."  So much for zipless fucking.  
But I did want to see him again.  He was interesting, he was cute, and 
he fucked like an animal.  I wondered what he'd be like outside of the 
coffin-like confines of an airplane lavatory.  There was one problem, 
though: he didn't know I was only fifteen. 
 
The plane stopped at the gate, and our fellow passengers stood up from 
their seats, reaching into overhead bins and under seats to collect 
their belongings.  Robby and I waited until the line of people leaving 
the plane began to move before we got up from our seats.  We walked off
the airplane together, past the smiling row of flight attendants at the
door who thanked us for flying United.  Well, at least Robby and I had 
flown united for a few passionate minutes. 
 
"I've got to catch my connecting flight," Robby said.  "I'll be back in
Boston in a couple of weeks.  Call me?" 
 
"I will," I said.  He leaned over and gave me a quick kiss, and then he
was gone.  I watched him walk down the concourse towards his next 
flight, and then I hefted my backpack over my shoulder and headed away 
from the gate. 
 
It seemed as if there were as many people here to meet the flight as 
there had been on the plane.  Wives greeted husbands, husbands greeted 
wives, a large family had a noisy, happy reunion.  One man stood alone,
scanning the faces of people leaving the plane: tall, tanned, dark
curly hair graying at the temples, khaki slacks and a sport jacket. 
His eyes met mine and he smiled, walking over to me from where he
stood. 
 
"Annie?" 
 
"Daddy?"  I recognized him now. 
 
"Annie.  At last...," he said, wrapping his arms around me.  I hugged 
him, feeling my eyes well up with tears.  I didn't want to get 
emotional, but I just couldn't help it.  I looked up at him and he held
me tighter, kissing the top of my head. 
 
"Let's go get my suitcase before I start crying in the middle of the 
airport," I said.  My father laughed and hugged me again, and then he 
took my hand and we headed towards the baggage claim area. 
 
"You're beautiful, just like your mother," he said as we waited by the 
baggage carousel. 
 
"Thank you, Daddy."  I blushed, looking around to see if anyone
noticed.  The conveyor belt lurched to life, and luggage started
appearing from a small door set into the wall.  It took a few minutes
for my suitcase to appear; my father scooped it up from the conveyer by
the handle. 
 
"I'm parked over by Terminal A," he said.  "This way."  I followed him 
down a wide concourse and we stepped on to a moving walkway, looking
out the glass walls at the distant hills. 
 
"Flight okay?" he asked. 
 
"Fine.  Just a bit of turbulence," I said, trying to sound like a 
veteran flier, even though I was a bundle of nerves for the first part 
of the flight. 
 
"Good, glad to hear it," he said.  "Mia and the kids are back at the 
house.  There's enough time for you to settle in and unpack, and then 
we'll go out to eat.  Sound okay to you?" 
 
"Yes, Daddy," I said. 
 
"You look great.  Really great," he said. 
 
"Thank you, Daddy."  I blushed again, and he chuckled. 
 
"Just like your mother," he said, reaching out to touch my cheek.  "I 
could make her turn as red as a beet." 
 
"Mom...," I said, under my breath.  It had been a little over three 
years since she'd been killed, shot during a robbery at the bank where 
she'd worked as a teller.  A social worker had tried to track down my 
father, but she came up empty.  Without any other living relatives, I 
was left in the care of my stepfather, Ramon, my dear papi. 
 
"Annie.  I'm sorry," my father said, putting down my suitcase and
taking my hand.  "I didn't know about your mother until two years after
she died.  By then you had left Florida." 
 
"It's okay, Daddy," I said, squeezing his hand.  "It's okay." 
 
"I would have come for you." 
 
"I know." 
 
"I missed you, Annie." 
 
"I missed you, too, Daddy."  This wasn't exactly true.  I was very
young when he'd left my mother and I, too young to really know him, but
his absence left a hole in my life.  I thought about him every
Christmas, every Fathers' Day, and on the anniversary of my mother's
death, but there were people I missed even more: my lover Julia, my
papi, my stepbrothers Del and Paco. 
 
We reached the end of the moving walkway.  My father picked up my 
suitcase and led me out of the terminal, into the Arizona sunshine.  We
walked across a parking lot, to a red Cadillac convertible with a white
interior.  He placed my bag in the back seat and opened the door for
me, and then we drove out of Sky Harbor Airport and headed towards the 
distant blue hills I'd seen from the terminal. 
 
"You'll like the house," my father said.  "It's a nice place, but I'm 
looking for a bigger one in the same development.  You'll have to share
a room with Dana for now." 
 
"Dana?" 
 
"My daughter.  Mine and Betsy's," he said. 
 
"Betsy?" 
 
"Elizabeth.  My second wife," he said.  "I always called her 'Betsy'." 
 
"Oh.  You have a son, right?"  I'd only spoken briefly with my father 
before flying out, and I knew he had two kids from his second marriage,
and that his third wife was expecting a child soon. 
 
"David.  He's twelve." 
 
"Twelve?  But that's..." 
 
"Before I left your mother," my father said.  "He's Betsy's son from
her first marriage.  Actually, she wasn't really married.  It was just
some guy she lived with.  But I consider Davy my son, anyway."  We were
stopped at a traffic light and he turned and looked at me, taking a 
quick glance at my bare legs.  I tugged my skirt down over my thighs, a
reflexive gesture. 
 
"And, um, Mia?  Is that her name?" I asked him.  She was his third
wife. 
 
"You'll like her.  She's pretty young, only 24," my father said. 
 
"When did you meet?" 
 
"It was three years ago, when I was still selling cars, before I got my
real estate license.  Her parents flew down from Montreal to buy her a 
Jeep," he said, steering the car down a long avenue lined with palm 
trees.  But for the lack of an ocean aroma and the occasional cactus 
plant we could have been in Florida.  Even the buildings and houses had
that South Florida look: white stucco walls and terra cotta roofs. 
 
We drove the rest of the way in silence.  The weather wasn't as hot as
I had expected; it was warmer than Boston, to be sure, but it felt more
like a late spring day, even though the sun was just starting to set. 
I leaned back against the seat, feeling the breeze blowing through my 
hair.  We pulled off the road and went through a set of steel gates, 
past a security guard with a nickel-plated revolver strapped to his
hip.  He smiled at my father and waved us through. 
 
Just past the gate was the clubhouse, a sprawling white stucco building
with a sign out front that read "Rancho Paradiso - MEMBERS ONLY".  Past
the clubhouse, I could see parts of the golf course around which the 
community was built, closely-cropped grass with sandy bunkers, some 
stunted trees and cactus plants surrounding the fairway.  We drove
along a winding street lined with houses in various states of
construction. 
 
"This is Phase III," my father said.  "We started this last fall." 
 
"They're nice," I said.  Seeing some of the houses that were only 
partially built, naked wooden beams only partly covered in plywood and 
sheetrock, reminded me of the derelict brownstone in which I'd hidden 
for a few days, abandoned in the middle of renovation.  There was 
something about these houses that seemed cheap compared to houses I'd 
seen in New England, as if they were constructed from toothpicks and 
construction paper, hardly able to survive a nor'easter. 
 
We arrived at an older part of the community, built a few years
earlier.  The palm trees were taller, the houses slightly smaller.  I
saw a few with "FOR SALE" signs on the lawn that bore my father's name
and phone number, and the name of his company.  He slowed down and
pulled into a driveway, parking next to a station wagon.  There was a
girls' bicycle on the lawn, pink frame and white plastic tassels on the
ends of the handlebars, a fake license plate with the name "DANA" on
the back of the seat. 
 
"We're here," my father said, turning off the ignition.  "I'll get your
bag." 
 
The front door was unlocked.  My father led me inside, putting my 
suitcase down on the polished tile floor.  "Mia!  We're home!" he
called out.  I heard footsteps coming from the kitchen, along with
another sound, the click of a dog's paws.  Mia appeared, accompanied by
a German Shepherd.  The dog trotted over to me and immediately stuck
his snout under my skirt, pressing his cold, wet nose into my crotch. 
 
"Hey!" I shouted, stepping back. 
 
"Schultzie!  Sit!" my father said.  The dog looked at him and sat on
his haunches, his tail swishing back and forth on the tiles.  "Give him
your hand to sniff," he said.  "He just wants to get to know you." 
 
"I'll say."  I reached out, letting the dog sniff my fingers and then 
scratching behind his ears, making his tail wag faster. 
 
"Mia, this is Annie," my father said.  "My daughter." 
 
"I'm so happy to meet you finally," Mia said, extending her hand.  She 
was petite, despite her pregnancy, barely an inch taller than me, with 
big brown eyes and dark brown hair that had been cut in a sort of shag,
coming down to  the nape of her graceful neck.  She gave my hand a 
gentle squeeze. 
 
"Where are the kids?" Frank asked. 
 
"Finishing their homework," Mia said. 
 
"Come, let me show you around," my father said.  I followed him from
the foyer, through a large living room with a stone fireplace, an
Indian rug in front of the hearth, expensive leather couches and seats,
and a large glass-topped coffee table.  We walked past the kitchen and
through a carpeted hallway. 
 
"Our bedroom...this is my den...here's Davy's room," my father said, 
giving me the tour of his house.  He knocked on David's door and opened
it.  His son was seated at a desk, a textbook open in front of him as
he jotted notes in a looseleaf notebook. 
 
"Davy, this is Annie," he said.  "Your stepsister." 
 
"Hi," David said, getting up from his desk to shake my hand.  He
sounded shy, looking down at his feet as I accepted his handshake. 
What surprised me was his coffee-colored complexion, almost the same
shade as Cami's, and his curly copper hair that set off his pale blue
eyes.  After we shook hands, he stood there quietly, his hands in the
pockets of his blue jeans, shifting his weight from one foot to the
other. 
 
"We'll let you get back to your homework," my father said.  "Be ready 
for dinner in an hour or so, okay?" 
 
"Yes, Dad," David said, smiling wanly as he returned to his desk.  We 
left his room and my father closed the door behind him. 
 
"Shy," I said.  "Cute kid, though." 
 
"He is.  Smart, too.  Made the honor roll last year."  My father led me
to the room next door, knocking before walking in. 
 
"Annie, this is Dana," he said.  The girl was sitting on her bed, a
book in her lap.  She looked up and smiled, soft auburn ringlets
surrounding her round face, a cute button nose, my father's deep blue
eyes. 
 
"Hi, Annie," she said, putting aside the book. 
 
"Why don't you wait here and I'll bring in your bags," my father said. 
I sat down on the bed next to Dana. 
 
"What are you reading?" I asked her. 
 
"Charlotte's Web," she said. 
 
"You like to read?"  Dana nodded. 
 
"Well, don't let me interrupt you," I said. 
 
"It's okay.  I was just at the end of a chapter." 
 
"I'll bring the cot in from the garage," my father said as he returned 
with my suitcase and back pack. 
 
"Can I help?" I asked. 
 
"No, it's pretty light," he replied.  "Dana?  Can Annie use a drawer in
your dresser for her things?" 
 
"Yes, Daddy," she said, slipping a bookmark between pages and closing 
her book. 
 
"It's not necessary," I said.  "I can live out of my suitcase for a few
days." 
 
"Nonsense," my father said.  Dana opened the bottom drawer of her 
dresser, already empty except for a couple of bathing suits.  She
pulled them out and stuffed them in the drawer above. 
 
"Thank you, Dana," I said, as my father left to get the cot.  "You
don't mind if I stay in your room?"  She shook her head, her curly hair
swirling around her shoulders. 
 
"It'll be fun, like a sleepover," she said. 
 
"Yeah, it will," I said, taking her hand and squeezing it.  "Help me 
unpack, okay?"  Dana smiled and scooted off of the bed as I placed my 
suitcase on a chair and opened it.  She fetched some hangers from her 
closet for my dresses and blouses, and helped me fold my skirts, 
sweaters, and underwear, carefully placing them in the dresser drawer. 
 
"This is so pretty," Dana said, holding my sheer pink babydoll nightie 
against her little body, looking in the mirror on her closet door as
she turned this way and that. 
 
"It's a bit big for you, sweetie," I said.  It was the nightie I had 
bought at Mrs. Pomerantz's boutique, the one that reminded me of the 
negligees my mother used to wear.  I heard the squeak of casters in the
hallway, and my father appeared with the cot, an aluminum framework 
around a mattress that was folded like bread from a sandwich. 
 
"Is that yours?" my father asked me as Dana folded the nightie. 
 
"Yes, Daddy." 
 
"It looks like...nevermind," he said, wheeling the cot next to Dana's 
bed and unfolding it.  "Mia's getting some sheets and pillows for you."
 
"Thank you," I said.  "Is there time for me to take a shower before 
dinner?" 
 
"Plenty of time," he said.  "The kids' bathroom is through there."  He 
pointed to a sliding door opposite Dana's closet.  "I'll get Mia to 
bring you some fresh towels."  He smiled and left just as Mia arrived 
with pillows and linen for the cot.  She began to unfurl the sheet, 
slowly bending over to tuck the corners under the mattress. 
 
"No, no, let me do that," I said. 
 
"I don't mind," Mia replied. 
 
"No, really.  I don't want to be a bother.  Please."  I took the sheets
from her hands and finished dressing the cot while Dana slipped the 
pillows into their pillowcases. 
 
"I'll be back with some towels," Mia said. 
 
"Do you help your mom around the house?" I asked Dana. 
 
"She's not my mom," she replied, pouting. 
 
"Sorry.  I meant your stepmom." 
 
"Oh.  I help a little.  Daddy has a cleaning lady come in twice a
week." 
 
"That's good," I said.  I couldn't picture Mia cleaning this house by 
herself, and she wasn't even due for another couple of months. 
 
"Is there anything else I can get you?" Mia asked, returning with a
pair of towels and a washcloth. 
 
"I'm fine, thank you," I said, taking the linen from her.  She smiled 
and left, and I went into the bathroom for my shower.  There was
another door that must have led to David's room, and I locked both
before getting undressed. 
 
Robby's semen had soaked through the folded paper towel I'd slipped
into the crotch of my panties while I was on the plane.  Fortunately,
my skirt was still clean, no telltale white stains on the back.  I
filled the sink and dropped my panties in the warm, soapy water to
soak. 
 
The shower had one of those detachable massage heads, like the one in 
Mr. Sheffield's bathroom.  I savored the feeling of warm water pulsing 
on my skin, directing the stream over my breasts, my belly, between my 
legs.  There was a pleasant tingling, but I resisted the temptation to 
linger in the shower and make myself come.  Still, it seemed like a 
wonderful way to start the day.  Perhaps tomorrow morning... 
 
I dried myself off with one of the plush towels that Mia had brought
for me, wrapping it around my body and rinsing out my panties in the
sink.  I wringed them out, draping them over the shower curtain rod to
dry.  When I stepped back into Dana's room, she was gone, leaving me
alone to brush out my hair and get dressed.  I put on a nice dress, a
black cocktail sheath that I'd found in a vintage clothing store in
Boston, along with black pumps and a simple strand of pearls that Helen
had bought for me.  A bit of makeup, not too much, and I was ready for 
dinner. 
 
Mia and my father were sitting in the living room, sipping chilled
white wine.  Davy and Dana had iced glasses of soda, and the dog was
spread out on the rug by the hearth, gnawing at a big piece of rawhide.
 
"Can I get you something, Anne?," Mia asked me.  "A soda or some
juice?" 
 
"Could I have a glass of wine, please?" I said.  She looked over at my 
father, and he looked at me for a moment. 
 
"Sure," he said.  Mia started to get up from the couch, but my father 
stopped her and headed into the kitchen, returning with a glass of
wine. 
 
"You look very pretty in that dress, Anne," Mia said.  "Doesn't she, 
Frank?" 
 
"Pretty and grown up," he said, handing me the wineglass. 
 
"Thank you," I said, taking a sip.  It was dry but fruity, smooth. 
 
"So.  Tell me what you've been up to," my father said.  "You're in 
school, right?" 
 
"Not right now," I said.  "School doesn't start for a couple of weeks."
 
"Really?" he said.  "The kids have been back for a week now." 
 
"It's a private school.  I think the semester ends later." 
 
"Those people you're staying with, how do you know them?" he asked. 
 
"Friends of a friend," I said.  For the last week I'd been trying to 
figure out what I could safely tell my father about my life since he'd 
left us.  Obviously, the truth wasn't going to work.  How could I tell 
him that I'd been on the street, trading sex for money.  Even before 
that, there was my relationship with Julia, my life with my papi and my
stepbrothers, so much that I wasn't able or willing to talk about. 
 
"That lawyer, Bradley was his name?  He said that they'd been looking 
for me since they found you.  Where were you?" my father asked. 
 
"I was living with Dee and Cami," I said. 
 
"Who were they?" 
 
"Dee's a nightclub singer," I replied.  "Cami's just a couple of years 
older than me.  I cooked for them, did housework sometimes." 
 
"What about school?" Mia asked, taking a sip of her wine. 
 
"I missed a year," I admitted.  "I'd study on my own." 
 
"But you have to make a year up now, right?" my father asked. 
 
"No, I won't.  I did pretty well on the entrance exam, and Helen hired
a tutor to help me catch up." 
 
"That's good to hear," Mia said.  "This private school, it is a good 
one?"  There was just a trace of a French accent in her speech. 
 
"Yes, it's pretty exclusive," I said.  "I'm looking forward to it." 
 
"We should get a move on," my father said, looking at his watch.  "We 
have reservations."  I took a last sip of my wine and followed them out
to the driveway, where we all piled into Mia's Volvo station wagon.  I 
sat in the back seat, between David and Dana.  David looked through the
window, out at the twilight sky, while Dana reached for my hand, 
intertwining her fingers with mine. 
 
"Are you going to live with us?" she asked me. 
 
"I don't know," I said, catching my father's eyes in the rear view 
mirror. 
 
"I'm gonna have a little sister soon," she said, "but I want a big 
sister, too." 
 
"You might be getting a little brother instead," Mia said, turning 
around in her seat.  I laughed, and Dana wrinkled her nose. 
 
"Boys are yucky," she said. 
 
"What about David?" I asked.  "He seems nice."  David sighed and kept 
gazing out the car window.  He hadn't said a word since we were first 
introduced. 
 
"He's okay, I guess," Dana said. 
 
The restaurant wasn't far, only a few minutes away.  We parked in the 
lot and went in, where we were seated almost immediately, despite a 
small crowd of people waiting for tables.  Except for that tiny portion
of lasagna I'd had on the plane, I'd had almost nothing to eat all day.
 I'd been too nervous about flying to have much more than toast and tea
for breakfast.  I had a craving for seafood, but the menu was heavily 
skewed towards beef.  That was fine, though.  I was hungry enough to
eat anything at this point. 
 
We ordered, and the waiter brought a round of drinks, wine for Mia and 
I, soda for Dana and David, and a scotch on the rocks for my father. 
He drained it pretty quickly, and ordered another even before our food 
arrived.  Mia frowned at this. 
 
"Slow down, Frank," she said.  "Don't forget that you're driving." 
 
"I'm fine," he replied.  Still, he took it easy anyway, sipping instead
of gulping. 
 
Our food arrived, and the waiter placed a plate in front of me that
held the biggest hunk of steak I'd ever seen in my life.  My father
laughed when he saw my eyes widen. 
 
"I don't know how I'm going to eat all of this," I said. 
 
"Whatever you don't finish we can bring back with us," he replied. 
"I'm sure Schultzie would love it." 
 
I ate far more than I thought I would, just about half of the tender, 
rare beef smothered in sauteed onions and mushrooms.  It was probably 
the best I'd ever had.  Dana and Davy had smaller portions, from the 
children's menu, but my father's steak was even larger than mine.  Mia 
just had a salad and a broiled fillet of sole, though.  As we devoured 
our hunks of dead cow, I wondered what Michael, that vegetarian artist,
would think.  For that matter, I tried to picture my father eating one 
of those rice cakes, almost laughing out loud at the mental image this 
produced. 
 
My father had yet another scotch after he finished his meal, even
though Mia and I had yet to finish our wine.  He began to get
boisterous, laughing loudly at his own jokes, making Mia roll her eyes.
 
"So, Annie," he said, too loudly.  "You have a boyfriend back in 
Boston?" 
 
"Not really," I said.  I still felt a little raw over the silent 
treatment Bradley's son, Brad Jr., had given me when he'd come back
from school for winter break.  He'd been so sweet to me just a year
before, so passionate, that his coldness had hurt even more. 
 
"What's the matter?" my father said.  "A pretty girl like you..." 
 
"Frank...," Mia said, sharply. 
 
"Stay out of this, Mia," he barked back.  "I wanna know if my little 
girl is fucking someone, dammit." 
 
"Frank!" she gasped.  "Where's that waiter?  I'm getting the check." 
 
"We'll leave when I'm damn ready," he said, slamming down his drink.  A
melted ice cube escaped from the glass and skittered over the table.  I
looked at David and Dana: they were terrified, embarrassed.  People at 
the adjoining tables were turning their heads and whispering to each 
other. 
 
"Frank," Mia said, softly.  "You're making a scene."  As if on cue, the
waiter appeared with a small leather folder that held the check.  My 
father reached for his wallet, pulling out a credit card without even 
looking at the bill.  He was quiet now, saying nothing until we were
out in the parking lot. 
 
"Give me the keys, Frank," Mia said, standing in front of the driver's 
side door of the car. 
 
"Fuck off, Mia.  I can drive," he said. 
 
"Not with the kids in the car you won't," she said, lunging forward to 
grab the keys from his hand.  My father sidestepped her and stumbled 
backwards, nearly falling to the asphalt.  "Frank!  The keys!" 
 
"Come and get them," he taunted her, holding them over her head and 
laughing.  Even on her toes, they were still a foot beyond her reach. 
 
"This isn't funny," Mia said.  "Davy.  Dana.  Annie.  Come.  We're
going back in to call a cab." 
 
"The hell you are," my father said.  He was about to say something else
when he doubled over and retched all over the pavement and on the tire 
of the car parked in the adjacent spot, dropping the car keys in the 
process.  David was on them in a flash, snatching them from the ground 
and handing them to Mia.  While my father paved the parking lot with
his dinner, Mia unlocked the car and got behind the wheel.  Dana,
David, and I scooted into the back seat and we were peeling out of the
lot before my father was finished puking. 
 
Dana was sobbing, and I put my arm around her, holding her trembling 
little body.  I reached out for David's hand, but he moved it away.  I 
could tell he was on the verge of tears, but he was putting up a brave 
front, looking away, out the window, into the night. 
 
Dana had quieted down by the time we pulled into the driveway, but now 
it was Mia's turn.  She rested her head on the steering wheel and
softly wept. 
 
"You kids have a key?" I asked them.  David nodded.  "Go inside.  Give 
Schultzie the leftovers.  We'll be there in a few minutes."  As they
got out of the car, I went around to the passenger side and sat down on
the front seat, next to Mia, putting my arm around her, trying to
comfort her as I had with Dana.  She shrugged off my hand at first, but
then she relented, letting me put my arm around her shoulder. 
 
"Does he do this a lot?" I asked her.  She shook her head. 
 
"Just the past few months," she said, her voice cracking.  "It's been 
hard on him lately, with the baby, so much work.  These houses aren't 
selling as well as he thought." 
 
"Does he hit you?" I asked. 
 
"No.  Never.  He just becomes an asshole when he drinks." 
 
"Has he thought about getting some help?" 
 
"No," Mia said, shaking her head.  "I tried to talk to him about it,
but he just gets angry." 
 
"Maybe you should leave him," I said.  Mia stopped sobbing and looked
at me. 
 
"Never.  I could never...," she said. 
 
"Okay, it was just a thought," I whispered, caressing her tear-stained 
cheek.  She winced, bringing my hand down to her swollen belly. 
 
"Did you feel that?  The baby's kicking." 
 
"Wow," I said.  I'd never felt that before, and I wondered what it
would be like to carry a child within me. 
 
"I think it's a boy," Mia said.  "Girls aren't supposed to kick like 
that." 
 
"Do you have a name yet?" 
 
"Frank Junior, if it's a boy," she said. 
 
"And if it's a girl?" 
 
"Frank wanted to name her 'Anne'," she said.  "That was before you
found him." 
 
"Anne?" 
 
"Yes.  Now she'll be Cherie, after my grandmother.  But I think it's a 
boy." 
 
"Cherie.  It's a beautiful name," I said. 
 
"That it is.  You know, Frank was so excited to hear from you.  He 
thought he'd never see you again." 
 
"I know," I whispered.  My father had nearly cried when I first spoke 
with him on the phone. 
 
"He wants you to live with us," Mia said.  "He's even looking for a 
bigger house with an extra bedroom." 
 
"I don't know if I can," I said.  I had a life back in Boston, and 
compared to Bradley and Helen, my father was practically a stranger.  
They'd been so good to me, so supportive, so generous.  Still, if I did
decide to move here I knew that they'd understand.  After seeing my 
father drunk, though, this was pretty far from my mind. 
 
"Think about it," Mia said.  "I'd love to have you around."  She kissed
me on the cheek, softly, taking my hand and holding it in hers. 
 
"Thank you," I said. 
 
"I've got to go in," she said.  "Frank, Jr. is kicking my bladder." 
She laughed as she reached for the door handle. 
 
As Mia trundled off to the bathroom, I went into Dana's room to take
off my cocktail dress.  She and David were sitting on her bed, his arms
around her, holding her protectively.  Her tears had abated, but she 
looked as if they'd start again.  I sat down next to them and kicked
off my heels. 
 
"You kids okay?" I asked.  David nodded for both of them.  I put my arm
around him; this time he made no attempt to shrug it off. 
 
"That was a nice move, back in the parking lot, grabbing the keys," I 
said to David. 
 
"Thanks," he said, weakly. 
 
"You play baseball?" I asked him.  The way he scooped the keys up from 
the pavement reminded me of a shortstop snatching a ground ball before 
it could roll into the outfield. 
 
"A little," he said.  "I like soccer better." 
 
"My stepbrothers called it 'futbol'," I said.  "We used to play 
together, but they loved baseball even more."  I rubbed David's back as
I remembered how Del and Paco and I used to play catch in the field 
behind our house in Maine.  Sometimes Ramon would come out and bat 
fungo, hitting fly balls for us to shag in the tall grass. 
 
"Time for bed," Mia said, standing in the doorway.  She'd changed from 
her  mid-length burgundy maternity dress into a long white bathrobe.  
David and Dana stood up from the bed and filed into the bathroom to
wash up and brush their teeth.  When they'd left, I reached back and
started to unzip my dress. 
 
"Let me help you," Mia said, pulling down the zipper. 
 
"Thanks," I said, reaching into the dresser for my chemise and my 
kimono. 
 
"I can't wait until I can fit into something like that again," she
said, as I stepped out of the dress.  "It's lovely." 
 
"Thank you," I said.  Mia gave me a quick kiss goodnight and went into 
the bathroom to make sure the kids did a proper job of brushing their 
teeth.  I unclasped my bra and shrugged it off, slipping on the chemise
before skinning off my panties, wrapping my kimono around me as Dana 
returned from the bathroom.  I helped her out of her dress and
underwear and into her nightgown.  She was a skinny girl, her hips just
starting to take on a womanly shape.  After I tucked her in and gently
kissed her forehead, I reached into my knapsack for my journal and a
pen. 
 
"You're not going to bed?" she asked. 
 
"I want to do some writing first, sweetie," I said, sitting down on the
edge of her bed.  I was tired, somewhat jet-lagged, but I wanted to put
my thoughts on paper while they were still fresh in my mind. 
 
"Is that your diary?" Dana asked. 
 
"Yes.  Yes it is." 
 
"Oh," she said, barely able to keep her eyes open. 
 
"Go to sleep, honey," I said.  "I'll see you tomorrow."  I kissed her 
again and turned out the light.  She was probably asleep even before I 
closed the door. 
 
I sat in the living room and opened my journal, writing down everything
that had happened that day, from the moment I woke up, boarded the 
plane, my conversations with Robby, our tryst in the tiny lavatory, 
seeing my father for the first time in years, meeting my new stepmother
and my half-siblings, watching my father get drunk, the scene in the 
parking lot, right up to this moment, sitting in a strange house in 
Phoenix, Arizona.  Then I sat alone with my thoughts, trying to picture
what my life would be like if I came to live here.  The house was
quiet, chilly.  There was a hand knit quilt draped over the arm of the
couch.  I unfolded it and draped it over my shoulders. 
 
There was the sound of a key in the front door lock.  It was my father.
 His clothes were askew, his eyes bloodshot, his face looking drawn and
haggard.  He closed the door and took off his sport jacket, sitting
down heavily in an easy chair across from the couch.  Next to him, in
the other chair, Mia had left a pillow and a blanket.  He stared at
them before speaking. 
 
"Looks like I'm sleeping in the den tonight," he said. 
 
"Daddy...," I said, quietly. 
 
"Annie, I'm sorry." 
 
"Daddy...," I said again.  He looked defeated, older than his 45 years.
 
"I don't want to talk about it tonight," he said.  He stood up and 
gathered the pillow and blanket in his arms.  "I'm going to sleep. 
I'll see you tomorrow." 
 
"Good night, Daddy." 
 
"Good night, sweetheart."  He walked down the hall to his office. 
 
I felt sad for him.  I felt angry, too.  Sad because he looked so 
pitiful, so ashamed of what he'd done to the people he loved most.  
Angry because he was fucking up again, in a different manner from the 
way he'd fucked up his marriage to my mother, diddling my babysitter
who was only thirteen at the time.  I knew little about his second
marriage, to the mother of David and Dana, just that Betsy had run off
to an ashram in Oregon, cleaning out my father's bank account in the
process and giving it all to some Maharishi Mahesh Yogurt.  It wasn't
fair to blame my father for that sort of flakiness, and he'd done the
right thing, taking care of their daughter and her son, the child of
another man. 
 
But here he was, doing his level best to screw up his third marriage, 
probably putting his job in jeopardy as well.  I had no idea what to
do, what to say to him, or if it was even my place to say or do
anything.  I was his first child, his oldest girl, but he'd been out of
my life for over a decade, and to be truthful, I hardly knew him.  That
was the reason I'd flown out here, to reconnect, to get to know my
father, a man I hadn't seen since I was four years old. 
 
I had to stop thinking about this.  I was tired, at least my brain was,
thought my body felt restless, an excess of energy surging through my 
limbs.  I thought about taking a walk, just to burn it off.  I thought 
about going back into Dana's room, into my backpack, where I'd kept
some sleeping pills and a few Valium left over from the prescriptions
my therapist had written for me.  Instead, I went over to the bar set
into the flagstone wall of the living room, pouring myself a scotch.  I
stood by the tall picture windows, looking out over a dark green
fairway.  There were a few stars shining, but the rest were masked by
the haze of light that filtered up from downtown Phoenix.  In the
distance was a dark mountain range, the one I'd seen from the plane,
separating the city from the desert beyond. 
 
I sipped the scotch, feeling its warmth start in my belly and spread 
through my limbs.  It was just what I needed, something to ground me,
to stifle my restless energy.  I didn't even have to finish it, and I 
spilled out the rest of the scotch down the kitchen sink, placing the 
glass in the dishwasher and heading off to bed. 
 
Dana was sleeping quietly.  I slipped off my kimono and watched her for
a while, her curls spilling over her pillow and framing her face as she
slept.  She kept a picture of her mother next to her bed, and though 
Dana had her father's eyes, the curls, her cute little nose, and the 
shape of her face belonged to her mother.  I stifled the urge to kiss 
her and climbed into the cot, trying to make as little noise as 
possible.  Dana stirred, but didn't wake up. 
 
"Good night, little sister," I whispered, pulling the sheets up over my
body and laying my head down on the pillow.  There was once a time when
I had no end of trouble falling asleep in a strange bed, but after all 
the places I'd found myself over the previous year, all the dark and 
scary places I'd slept, I didn't have that problem any more.  I closed 
my eyes and let sleep embrace me. 
 
 
                                  * * * 
 
 
It was a strange dream, precisely because it wasn't strange at all. 
Its logic wasn't inconsistent with the waking world.  My surroundings
were unfamiliar, but only until I remembered where I was, Dana's
bedroom, Phoenix, night. 
 
My father stood over our beds.  His pants were down, his cock was out, 
and he was stroking himself, a look of lust and hunger in his eyes. 
The sheet that had covered my body had been pulled down, and my chemise
was bunched up around my waist.  I looked over at Dana's bed: she was 
asleep, but her nightie had been lifted over her slim hips and her legs
were spread. 
 
"Daddy?" I whispered.  Even stranger.  In some of my dreams I wasn't 
able to speak, unable to scream if I had to. 
 
"Shhhh...," he said.  "It's just a dream." 
 
"It's not a dream," I said.  "My dreams are weirder than this." 
 
"Shhhh...," he repeated.  "Go to sleep."  I was groggy, and I started
to close my eyes, but I heard him gasp and hold something white over
the tip of his penis.  He wiped himself off with it and dropped it on
the floor before leaving.  I wanted to get up, to see what that white
object was, but I was too tired.  I closed my eyes and the dream faded
into nothingness. 
 

                                  * * * 
 
 
(c) 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html

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