1 comments/ 12441 views/ 1 favorites Stories By: The Gentle Man She leaned over and turned the water off. The tub was nearly full and she did not want it to overflow when she got in. She raised her leg and tested the temperature of the water with her toe. It was hot, but not too hot and she stepped over the high side of the tub and stood for a moment letting the warmth travel up her legs relishing the chills it left in its wake. She looked down and watched her nipples stiffen and rise from her breasts. The response of her body to any kind of stimulus had always fascinated her. Placing her hands on the edges of the tub, she slowly lowered herself until she was sitting. The water flowed around her body as it was submerged and caressed her like warm soft hands. Steam rose from the surface and the scent of the oil she had added mixed with it and she breathed deeply of the aroma. With a sigh she leaned her head back and let the scented air and water close around her. She closed her eyes and when she did she heard His voice again . . . deep and mellow, soothing and arousing at the same time . . . the words of His story flowing into her ear . . . seducing her . . . drawing her into the picture He was painting . . . until she could see and feel everything He was describing. It had all been so real that her orgasms had left her weak and trembling. How many there had been she could not even remember; they seemed to flow one into another until she was crying aloud, holding the phone close to her mouth so that he could hear every gasp, every sigh, every moan, every scream. With her eyes still closed, she smiled and let the memories absorb her. She had been lying in bed, missing him, wanting to call but not wanting to disturb Him. He was away on business and she knew He would be busy. He had been gone two days and would be gone for two more and she was feeling lonely and aroused. All day long thoughts of Him and their reunion had played in her mind so that by evening she was seriously considering taking matters into her own hands. She knew it would be all right with Him, He had given her permission, but the prospect of being alone afterward did not appeal to her very much. Still, images and fantasies continued to tease her. If she could only hear the sound of His voice, she thought, she would be okay. Talking to Him always made her feel better. The ringing of the phone had been such an abrupt interruption of her thoughts that she had actually jumped. Slightly breathless, she had answered the phone and felt His voice reaching through the line to kiss her ear. Immediately, she was flooded with emotions. She had not expected to hear from Him so her joy was mixed with surprise. For a moment she feared that something was wrong, but then she heard Him smile and she was again filled with a delight that was distinctly seasoned with arousal. That arousal had only grown stronger when He had told her that He had written a new story and had called to read it to her. Trembling slightly with anticipation, she had done what He had told her and had taken off her clothes and lay naked on the bed, waiting for the story to begin. As He began reading and her mind transformed the words into images, her body had begun to respond. She spread her legs apart when He described how the woman in the story was tied to the bed. With her free hand she reached and took hold of the headboard and imagined the feel of the velvet ropes around her wrists. When He spoke of the woman’s rising excitement and heightened sensations, she had felt them as well. Her hand traveled the same path over her body as His hand moved over the bound and helpless woman in the story. His words, his voice, guided her to the intimate place between her legs and when her fingertips had brushed her clit, she had been unable to stifle a gasp. A short pause on His end as He savored the sound had been followed by more words . . . more pictures . . . each sentence building upon the previous one . . . relentlessly building the tension. When the woman in the story strained against the ropes, she had done so with her though the only restraints she wore were those His imagination had placed on her. She had felt the delicious tightness of them as if they had been real and had marveled at how He could dominate her with His words even when He was a thousand miles away. She shifted in the tub and the small waves that the movement caused bounced off of the sides of the tub and returned to wash over the tops of her breasts. She was becoming aroused again. In spite of the orgasms she had already had, she could feel the familiar tingling and she slipped her right hand beneath the surface of the water. Her left hand moved to her breast and she began to lightly pinch the hard nipple. The oil in the water helped her hands to slide easily over her skin. Her breathing quickened as the hand in the water slid between her legs and she began to stroke her outer lips with her fingertips. In her mind the memory of the story continued. The woman on the bed was quivering and trying desperately to capture His touch as His hand moved slowly ever closer to her pussy. As she had listened she had mimicked His caresses until she, too, was quivering. By this time, the woman in the story had become real to her and she heard the echo of her voice as they both whispered, “Please” together. When He had finally touched them she had dipped her fingers into her wetness and moaned into the phone. Her skin had been warm and flushed and her breathing had been rapid. He had heard it and she had heard the edge of excitement that had creeped into His voice as He read. The woman in the story was moving inexorably closer to the edge of orgasm as His tongue moved down her body and between her legs. Holding the phone as close to her ear as she could, she had struggled to hear Him over the sound of her own increasingly loud breathing. She had watched as the woman suddenly lifted her hips up off the bed and screamed through the orgasm that His tongue had brought her, and then, in a blinding rush, she had been overtaken by an orgasm of her own that was also caused by His tongue. With the aftershocks still moving through her body, He had relentlessly continued the story. She and the woman in the story came again . . . and again. The sheets beneath her had been soaked and she was literally writhing as her own hands followed the movements of His in the story and teased her nipples and her clit and even the tight opening of her ass. The waves of pleasure had been washing over her one after another and she had screamed into the phone more than once. Finally, the story had drawn to an end and she had laid trembling and panting with the fingers of her right hand still deep inside her pulsating pussy, trying to catch her breath and listening to His words of love and devotion soothing her as she came down. Now, as she lay in the tub remembering, she felt the tension building again and she shuddered as it overtook her and some of the water sloshed over the edge of the tub. She moaned loudly and pushed her fingers in deeper in order to prolong the sensation and pressed her feet against the wall, holding her body tense and rigid until the wave passed and the pleasure gradually receded. For a moment or two she lay still before she realized that the water had begun to cool. Taking a deep breath, she stood up, stepped out of the tub and wrapped a towel around her body. She felt relaxed and a little drowsy. After brushing her hair, she walked into the bedroom, dropped the towel and slipped naked into the bed. Pulling the blankets up she snuggled down into them and sighed contentedly. The bed was still empty without Him there, but she could not help smiling at the memories. She rolled over and felt the moistness that was still on the sheets from earlier and incredibly it caused a stirring in her once again. She could not believe that she was still aroused. She had thought the orgasm in the tub would be her last for the night, but now she realized that there was going to have to be one more. Switching on a light, she reached for the papers lying on the table and began to read again one of the other stories He had written and as she did so she heard His voice and His words and knew that He was always there . . . in the stories . . . Copyright by The Gentle Man, 2002 Stories about Satyrs The warm spring sun nearly blinded Rachel as she followed her two sisters out from the shaded forest path into the meadow. They had brought a blanket and a picnic basket and Rachel had brought a book, as usual. At twenty, Rachel was the middle sister. Her younger sister, Anne, had turned eighteen a month before, while her older sister, Isabel, was nearly twenty-six. The two younger sisters had just gotten home from school -- Rachel from university, Anne from her last year at boarding school -- and their elder sister had come home from the big city to spend a week with them. In their spring dresses and broad-brimmed, straw hats, the girls were the picture of genteel young womanhood. They shared the same, slim build, delicate features, and curly, blond hair. They found a level spot in the meadow, where the wild grass grew fairly low, and laid out the blanket. "Have you heard about the satyrs?" Anne asked, as they unpacked their picnic lunch. "What satyrs?" said Isabel. "Here in the forest," said Anne, "Jeannie Falstaff told me a girl down in River Cross met one in the woods last month," she giggled, "Jeannie said he had his way with her," she leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, "and that she was not entirely unwilling." "Don't be silly, Anne," said Isabel, "There haven't been satyrs in these woods for nearly a hundred years. They've all returned to the deep forest with the other spirits." "They did," said Anne, "But they're coming back. Haven't you heard? All the spirits have been stirring. The riverboat captain who brought me up river from school said that the water spirits are awake again and demanding offerings." "Honestly, Anne," said Isabel, "He was just telling stories to scare you." "What about it, Rachel?" said Anne, "You've heard the stories, I'm sure." Rachel hesitated. She had heard stories, many of them quite explicit. She recalled a night at college when she and her friend, Amanda, had acquired a bottle of wine and slipped away to a secluded corner of the college gardens to drink and share secrets. They started off with simple stories about family and friends, but as the bottle grew lighter, the stories grew heavier and more intimate. Eventually, Amanda told her about the satyr. She had stumbled upon him by accident: nearly colliding with him as she rounded a tree while walking in the woods on holiday. She said that he looked like a young man, no taller than herself, completely naked, with red skin, and dark, curly hair. A pair of rams horns grew from his head, and his legs tapered at the thigh into goat legs with smooth brown fur. She also said that he had the most enormous penis she had ever seen. "Oh?" Rachel had said, with a laugh, "And how many naked men have you seen?" "I've seen a few," said Amanda, "Enough to know that most of them would envy a cock like that." She said that the satyr had been as startled as she was herself. They both leapt back and watched each other warily. "Pardon me," she had stammered. He said nothing, merely stared, wide eyed, as if he had never seen anything like her before. Realizing that she needed to get past him in order to get home, she started to circle around him on the path, and he, uncertain what she intended, did the same, so that they orbited around each other as if performing a strange, awkward dance. "Well...good day to you," she said and started to back away down the path. The satyr said nothing. As he took in her body, his expression had become one of such profound longing that it made her heart ache. He reached out a hand to her. His cock began to swell. Flustered, she turned and began to walk away. After a few steps, she stopped and glanced back. The satyr had let his hand fall back to his side. He stood, forlorn, his eyes sliding over her body with such total, unselfconscious appreciation that it made her blush. Her dress felt thin and insubstantial beneath that gaze. She was suddenly acutely aware of her naked body underneath. She started to walk again, more slowly this time. She brushed her hair back and let the strap of her dress fall off her shoulder as she did so. There came a soft crunch of leaves as the satyr began to follow her. When she came to a fallen log in the path, she lifted up her dress, higher than necessary, to step over it. She walked a little further, then stopped and turned. The satyr stood at the fallen log. She took in his muscular body, his sharp features, his strange, melancholy eyes...and his dark red cock, now stiffly erect and quivering with desire. They watched each other for a moment. Then she let the other strap fall from her shoulder and lowered the dress, exposing her firm, young breasts. The satyr hopped eagerly over the log and approached her then. He reached out delicate fingers and caressed her breasts: lifting their soft weight in his hands and stroking her dark areolas. Leaning forward, he kissed them and licked her nipples with his velvety tongue so that they hardened in his mouth. Soon she found herself lying on her back in the middle of the path: her dress bunched up around her waist, her legs wrapped around his slim hips, his thick cock plunging deep inside of her, so that she cried out in pleasure and in pain. In an effort to slow down his thrusts, she grabbed his horns and pulled his face down to kiss her. His lips had a strange, earthy taste that reminded her of the forest. He did ease up for a while, to enjoy the kiss, but soon her own arousal got the better of her and she shifted her grip to his hard buttocks. She squeezed and pushed, encouraging him to thrust harder again. He did and soon her whole body was being rocked by the force of his hard cock slamming into her soft flesh. When he came, the sensation was like nothing she had ever felt. Being a forest spirit, his orgasm released a blast of magic as well as semen. It felt like fire exploding through her body, spreading out from her warm, wet vagina, through her torso and limbs, out to the tips of her fingers and toes. Every inch of her body tingled and burned with pleasure. For a few minutes, they just lay there, panting, their sweat mingling against each other. Then they heard the crunch of footsteps further up the path. The satyr slipped out of her and leapt to his feet. Before she had quite realized what was happening, he had darted away into the forest. She managed to clamor shakily to her feet and straighten her dress before the newcomer appeared around the bend in the path. It turned out to be the local parson, who was quite startled to find a disheveled young woman in the middle of the forest. She told him that she had fallen down a ravine and only just managed to climb back to the path. He tried to console her as he walked her back to town, saying all the while how good it was to find a young person enjoying themselves through healthy exercise rather than the debauchery so prevalent in the city. "Rachel!" said Anne, startling her out of her revery. "Oh," said Rachel, collecting herself, "I've heard...things." "About satyrs?" said Anne. "Yes, about them," said Rachel. Anne leaned back in triumph, giving Isabel an "I told you so" nod. "What would you do if you met one?" she asked her sisters, "I think I'd scream and run away!" "If there were any satyrs," said Isabel, "Which there aren't - and I did see one - which I won't, I would throw stones at it to chase it off. They are uncouth beasts and should should not be tolerated in civilized lands." "I," said Rachel, "Would ignore it." And, so saying, she picked up her book and proceeded to ignore her sisters as well. After that, Anne went to pick flowers, while Isabel napped. When Anne returned, she said that she wanted to go swimming in the river. Isabel agreed, but Rachel continued reading and let them go, leaving her alone in the meadow. She lay on her stomach with the book in front of her, her straw hat on the blanket by her side. She had kicked off her sandals and now wiggled her toes in the soft grass at the edge of the blanket. Soon, she heard a rustling behind her, near the trees. She turned, thinking that Anne and Isabel had returned from a different direction. Instead, she saw a reddish shape dart behind a tree and then a shaggy, horned head peek out from the other side. She turned back to her book, alarmed and uncertain. She wondered if she should call out for her sisters, but then thought that, after the earlier conversation, they would just think she was trying to play a trick on them. She heard more rustling. She waited a few moments, then looked again. The satyr was clearly visible now, standing by a tree near the edge of the clearing. He looked just like the one her friend had described, right down to the curving horns and prodigious manhood. He made as if to hide behind the tree, but hesitated when she did not react. She turned away again. She thought about her friend's experience. She thought about her book. She reached back and slowly pulled the hem of her dress a few inches higher up her leg. She waited. Soon, she heard soft steps drawing closer. She didn't look around. Instead, she pulled the dress up a little higher and waited again. After a few moments, she felt someone else lift her dress. She felt the cool air on her bare buttocks and then the warmth of the sun as he draped the dress over her back, leaving her naked below the waist. She blushed, but still did not turn round. Her legs were lying slightly apart, and now she felt delicate fingers slide up the smooth, softness of her inner thighs. She gasped as smooth fingertips traced across the delicate flesh of her labia, sending sparks through her body, filling her with fear and embarrassment and desire. She felt herself growing moist. She did not turn around. Now, hands pressed against the inside of her thighs again, moving them gently but forcefully apart. She waited for what would come next and was startled to feel breath on the bare skin of her backside. Lips kissed the soft curves of her buttocks. Then his face nuzzled into her and a soft, moist tongue slid across her most intimate parts. She let out a gasp. She had never considered this as a thing someone might do to her, but her tingling nerve endings did not object. The tongue continued licking the tight, tender folds between her legs. Her unseen lover's lips caressed and pulled at her labia as if kissing her mouth. She closed her eyes and lowered her head. She wanted to cry out with the pleasure of it but was afraid her sisters would hear. The head drew back and she felt a shadow fall over her. The satyr was now kneeling over her, pressing the smooth, hard head of his cock against her dripping wet pussy. Soft flesh stretched and parted as he entered her. Her whole body shuddered as the thick shaft pushed deeper and deeper inside. He lay on top of her, his head now level with her shoulder. Still, she did not turn. He brushed her hair aside and kissed the curve of her neck. She sighed. His rhythmic thrusting shook her whole body. His body slammed against her soft, wet buttocks with an audible slap. She looked down at her book, still laying open in front of her. The words swam across the page. Her brain was a roiling flood of sensations she had never dreamed of. She felt his breath on her ear and then his tongue tracing the curve of her earlobe. Tingling pleasure ran up and down the side of her face. She moaned. The rhythm sped up. She could feel the hard, thick shape deep inside of her pushing against her, stretching her, sliding in and out of her. She closed her eyes. She heard a low groan near her ear. His voice had a rough, almost animal sound like nothing she had ever heard. That sound sent her over the edge. She moaned and fell forward as orgasmic waves rocked her body. Her reaction must have had the same effect on him, for now he arched his back and ejaculated explosively inside her. As her friend had said, the sensation was like nothing she could have imagined. It burned her wet, exhausted vagina like fire. It filled her up and spread out across her skin and through her muscles. She could feel every hair on her body, every pore in her skin as a point of fiery pleasure. It spread further still, so that she thought she could feel the blanket and the grass and the trees as if it were part of her own body. She fell limply against the ground. The satyr lay on top of her, his hot breath panting beside her. After awhile, he turned and kissed her neck once again. He whispered something she did not understand in a voice that reminded her of rocks and tree roots. She felt his penis slide out of her, and the weight of his body lifted. The cool air played across her sweaty back. A few moments later, when she looked around, the satyr was nowhere to be seen. She pulled her dress back down. She could feel a large wet spot forming beneath her and was trying to figure out what to do about it when her sisters returned. "Still reading?" said Anne, as she crossed the meadow, "I swear, you are the most boring girl I've ever met!" "Are you feeling ill?" asked Isabel, "You look flushed." "I'm fine," Rachel said, trying to keep the panting out of her voice, "I've just been engrossed in my book." "Have you really?" said Isabel, with a hint of suspicion. She might have said more, but Anne interrupted. "Come on, you two," she said, grabbing up the picnic basket, "I want to get home for dinner. Here, Isabel, take that jar and those glasses. Rachel, since you're so attached to that blanket you can carry it yourself." Her younger sister set off across the meadow with the elder following after. Rachel rose shakily to her feet and bundled up the blanket. She carried it in front of her, silently thanking Anne for giving her an excuse to hide the evidence of her encounter. They passed through the forest uneventfully. When they reached the other side, Rachel paused and looked back the way they had come. For a moment, she thought she saw a red shape standing in the dappled shadows. She raised her hand and blew it a kiss. She thought, perhaps, that it raised a hand in return, but then the shadows changed and the forest was empty. Then she turned away and followed her sisters back home. Stories & Seductions “We write in order to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection.” Anais Nin It is that first moment that transcends all speech and thought – the moment our eyes meet. Shy yet lingering smiles greet our shared gazes. I lower my eyes demurely, flirtatiously—the gesture containing all the expertise of an eighteenth-century courtesan. I purse my lips, as if in thought, absentminded, as if you are the last thing on my mind. I see you as you see me; both of us with pen in hand, our thoughts and feelings making love to paper. In this, we are kindred spirits, preferring the tactile sensations of the sheet beneath our hands, the smooth flow of ink from our pens, our words transporting us from the mundane here and now to the realms of our wildest imaginings. Though you sit alone in a far corner of the café, separated by tables, chairs and people, we still silently communicate. Your long dark hair falls enchantingly over your face, and my fingers long to lightly brush it away. You are not necessarily handsome, not in the way society deems such things, yet something about the totality of you compels me, attracts me. A boyishly innocent face with its hawk-like nose and full, soft mouth, your bottom lip poised in a full sensuous pout. You are a man I can touch and taste. What do you see when you look my way? A young woman with brown skin and eyes, short haired, daringly androgynous, square-framed glasses perched upon a snub of a nose. My lips poised over the rim of the cup of coffee I sip slowly. You smile again. Are you thinking about what it would be like to kiss me? What would your lips feel like pressed against mine? What on earth am I thinking? You’ve probably a girlfriend or a wife. The sensitive, creative ones always do. So—we disengage, go back to our respective worlds, pausing occasionally to see if either of us is leaving. No, that isn’t how it shall be. Neither of us shall leave until we’ve spoken. That was our tacit agreement made in silence. And I have eyes for none but you. Interestingly enough, I am writing an erotic tale, and without hesitation, you have become my protagonist. Dare I be so bold as to show it to you? Probably not. A writer reveals their passions and desires through their art. Yet, I see no sin in allowing thoughts of you to fuel my literary tryst. Inspiration must come from somewhere. As my torrid tale slowly, achingly unfolds, I allow my mind's eye free reign, studying you from underneath coyly shadowed eyes. Would you be like the man in my story, a handsome, virile lover who ignites the forbidden desires of his chosen paramour? Or would you be some timid vanilla male who finds S/M or dominance games against everything you think sex should be? Or even worse, would you be some know-it-all macho posturing cretin who wouldn’t be able to find my character’s erogenous zones with a road map and compass? As I continue my stream-of-consciousness scribblings (first draft), I can feel your misty green eyes upon me yet again. Are you perhaps viewing me the same way? Your muse? I don’t even know what you’re writing. Prose? Poetry? A song? A love letter? A term paper? Are you writing down your dreams, hopes, or fears in a journal? Maybe, you’re writing erotica also. If you are, is it sweet and romantic—all flowing words and silken phrases? Or is it forbidden and naughty, like mine... "I could spend all evening proving just how badly you want this. Look at you, begging to be hurt. Begging to be fucked like the little pain slut that you have always been. My entire hand was inside your dripping cunt, and you thoroughly enjoyed it." Without warning, his hand penetrated her again, thrusting deep into her womb, heedless of her pain, but very aware of his merciless delight in being its cause. Regine writhed against him, willing to take his entire arm if he so chose… Hours pass in blissful prose induced reverie. I’m so aware of your presence, like you’re sitting right here in front of me. You have actually walked past me to purchase another coffee. We smile shyly as you pass. You are tall, ascetically thin. I watch, the tight denim of faded blue jeans cradling the nicest male derriere I’ve been blessed to see. A wallet leaves its indentation in your back pocket. Nice ass, I think to myself, decidedly unladylike. You cock your hip to the side, leaning against the counter with a careless insouciance. Shameless flirt, but hey, I’m enjoying the view. And they say men don’t preen. Back to our eagerly awaiting pages. My own words arouse me, the images filling my mind and the lines seducing me. It occurs to me that I may begin to pant aloud. Then what? Will you know then what I’ve been doing, what I’m writing about? Does the look on my face give me away? Can you tell that you’ve become the star of my sultry little tale? If you could see what I am writing about, would it shock you, or would you become just as aroused? Would you take me home tonight? I cannot continue this way, for my thoughts are becoming entirely too wicked, and I need release desperately. I need the solitude of my apartment to finish my tale. Pen is capped, notebook neatly put away, leather satchel slung over my shoulders. I rise slowly from my table and notice you starting to do the same. Hmm, fate does indeed smile upon me this night. You stroll over to where I stand, and for about a minute, we say nothing, our eyes taking each other in like undiscovered territory. “You’ve been watching me for hours.” Your voice is deep, husky—part poet, part California boy. “I have, haven’t I,” I reply breezily. “And you’ve been doing the same.” “A mutual admiration society, hmm?” “Indeed.” “Going home?” you ask half-nonchalantly, half eagerly. Are you hoping I’ll ask you to come with me? I just might if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes, the color of green beach glass. I nod slowly. “Yes. I do my best work in solitude”. Well, I think mischievously, not really. Some things are often better enjoyed with another person. “Mind if I walk with you? We haven’t talked to each other, and I think you’re really beautiful.” My stomach quivers. “You’re not half bad either,” I answer back teasingly. “In fact, I find you rather sexy.” You actually begin to blush. That’s it; I can’t resist a man who blushes. “Funny, that’s exactly what I thought of you while I was sitting over there writing. A sexy woman who writes, what else could a man like me ask for?” Your eyes sparkle. It’s your turn to be mischievous. So we leave the café together, into a night full of possibility, should either of us chose to take advantage of the moment. We walk close enough to touch, lost in rapt attention at each other’s words. You tell me your story. I’ll tell you mine… Stories and Their Flaws What many do not realize is that Andy Warhol's "15 minutes" applies to all, whether we're talking about our beloved Literotica here or the "more mainstream" publishing arena. How widely a piece of writing is read depends on how it generates "publicity." This reflection, however, pertains to LITEROTICA only. Its main focus is on story flaws. There are tons of stories posted everyday, but most are not worthy of comments, so I'll pick only one, a well written story, to critique. Targeted is the CLASS of writing like "The Stein," not "The Stein" in and of itself. KK's over-all argument was that the wife Nicky's ignorance of the history of her colleague teacher John and her husband Eric as well as her confession (to Eric at the very end) to having broken the stein in their living room right after the shooting, not only ABSOLVED her of conspiracy issues but that that confession revealed Nicky's loyalty and trustworthiness. I vehemently beg to differ! But before I go on, I should quickly mention the main characters: Nicky was the wife; Eric was the husband; John was Nicky's colleague teacher at her high school and he's also the shooter; Trenca was the detective. One small idiosyncratic thing: Eric has a small collection of mugs and the exquisitely hand-painted, German stein Nicky brought from Germany during her last trip there was very precious to him. John and Nicky, as high school teachers, went with the German Club as chaperones. "Honey, I brought this from Germany for you." In reality it's John who bought it and gave it to her. John had kissed her once or twice. "What he [Eric] doesn't know won't hurt him..." mug and kisses from John alike... Despite what KK said, there's no mystery over-all. He made the readers privy to most of the things almost immediately. The possible, little suspense was this: So if the female of the species coyly accepted a beautiful and expensive gift from the male of the species, and with the latter being able to gently land a few light kisses and caresses with the former, did that mean acceptance of full advances was merely a matter of time? No, the author said. That was a dead end lead. It's really about John seeking to harm Eric, with Nicky being used merely as a means. Here's what happened: Eric returned home a day earlier than planned. Nicky and John and other school staff were out for some gathering, after which John and Nicky drove to Eric and Nicky's place. She went up to her room to change. John followed her into her bedroom, she said (later during formal questioning), without her knowledge. But momentarily, they heard someone entering the house. Since Nicky did not expect her husband to come back until the next day and must have conveyed that information to, John said for Nicky to hide in the closet and he'd go and check. Eric, in the mean time, was about to walk upstairs, having surveyed his and Nicky's living room and laid down his brief case. Eric looked up and there was a man, with a gun, on top of the stairs! Bang! (Days later he woke up in the CI unit, hearing Nicky talking in a hushed up, worried tone with a man: "Does he remember?" "I don't know.... He's too doped up from the painkillers... John, please leave before he wakes up and sees you." "Okay, but remember what I said." "I will.") But let's not get ahead of ourselves here: immediately after the three shots, John went back to get Nicky, saying he accidentally shot her husband. Then he also said, well, he initially thought Eric was a burglarer who was reaching for a weapon. Both versions seemed to make sense to Nicky at that moment. Eric, in the mean time, was now bleeding profusely at the bottom of the stairs, needing immediate help! Then immediately, John added: "But, Nicky, you have to wait a couple minutes before you call 911. I'm going to TRASH your living room. WE need to make sure it looked like a simple burglary gone bad. Otherwise, if John dies, we're BOTH in big trouble!" The wait, it turned out, was 8 minutes, before she dialed 911, frantically telling them she had just entered their home and had found her husband shot. By now John had taken off, but not until after he had bent close to Eric's ear and whispered audibly enough for Nicky to hear, "This is for Sara." It made sense Nicky didn't understand this one weird whisper; but she if didn't question the other three successively set of "ideas" from John, it was illogical for Nicky to now ponder whether such a last action by John was strange or nonsensical! But, wait, before the police arrived, Nicky went into the living room and picked up the exquisite German mug from Eric's little collection, and smashed it, adding to the debris on the family room! (At the end of the story, KK/Eric said this act, ALONE, and her immediately and truthful confession, revealed more about Nicky's character integrity than all the other things she did or didn't do! But let's step back into the present situation for a few more moments.) Please, note: the idea about the *accidental* shooting, for BOTH Nicky and John, had immediately morphed into an more believable, to them, idea about the gun man now being other than John; let it be some unknown burglarers! But if so, a "evidence" to (mis)lead the police to those bad burglarers was needed! Thus, John's trashing of Eric and Nicky's living room. We can be sure all the while Nicky, being such a loving wife, must be shedding a lot of tears, looking at her totally helpless and fast dying husband, "unable" to call 911 until John thoroughly done trash the family room! I think it is also logical for us to assume Nicky reluctantly agreed to all this! But to her unthinking mind, John's been a good colleague and he's been right so far, so he must also be right on this latest room-trashing idea! No need to even wonder what the fuck he was doing with a loaded gun in her house, in hers and Eric's bedroom. That's too complex a question: Just wait for John to finish trashing the room, make sure he's gone, and THEN call 911 for Eric! We must further assume that's all Nicky could or would think about! The "problem" here was NOT, it should be clear enough by now, that Nicky could not or did not think, but that, she THOUGHT very similar THOUGHTS as John DID, not that Eric needed to die but that no matter what, the trashing of hers and Eric's family room must happen first before Eric would get help; otherwise, as John said, SHE and John would both be in deep trouble, if it was later found THEY were the two people in the house when Eric was shot, when he surprised them! But, folks, 'tis not an issue about missing panties! Or whether our highly popular "Sarahhh" having lied to her brother, when she gave him cow milk, but duping him to believe it was actually her precious breast milk! We're talking about a situation in which a man, Nicky's husband, being shot 3 times in his own home, laid dying, with his wife conspiring with the gun man to manufacture false evidence and to tell DELIBERATE lies, for days on end, trying to lead both Eric and the police astray! Whether Eric should forgive Nicky is NOT the real issue; that's between Eric and Nicky. The "concern" here is: what would the POLICE say about this manufacture of false crime evidence with the sole purpose to mislead them? Note this short, telling dialogue between Eric and Nicky, when Eric was a bit but still in the hospital: "What did the bastards take from our house?" "I don't know. They left a mess in the family room but I don't know what was broken or damaged and I didn't really look to see what missing yet"! This, among other situations touched on, I submit to you, was clear, DELIBERATE, and serious lying to conceal the truth! It was NOT a little white lie like the bringing of the mug home from Germany, letting Eric assume Nicky was thinking of him when she bought it! But, if all this is too confusing, ask yourself the following two questions: (1) What would have happened had Eric not survived? (2) Would the police, at the end, agree that Nicky's belated confessions were enough to absolve her of any possible wrong doing, by saying something like: "Well, your husband was shot multiple times, bleeding badly. Even if you didn't wait 8 or so minutes, he'd still likely have died by the time the ambulance arrived"? To me, character integrity deals with how Nicky dealt with both Eric and the police, explicitly and through subtle acquiescence ("Yes, we must work together and bring the burglarers to justice," etc.), in the subsequent minutes, hours, and days following the shooting! The mug, then, was not, as KK argued (per Eric and Nicky), the most important SYMBOL in this story pertaining to character revelation. If it WERE Nicky would have already failed the "test" when she had first given it to Eric, letting him think falsely she was thinking of him when she bought it in Germany! Please, note: Nicky's true ignorance of John's ultimate motives towards both her and Eric was a separate issue, not immediately germane to the issue of her intentionally neglecting a badly wounded Eric, SOLEY for the purpose of allowing John to trash their place. That act alone, to me, should make her crying and tears null and void. Lastly, Nicky's quitting of her high school teaching post at the LAUSD stemmed from the SOLE FACT that she KNEW an investigation would eventually point to her and John as being the two people in the house when Eric was shot (potential murderers whom she knew nothing about but was as eager as Eric and the police to catch!); it was not due to a fear of some potential embarrassments surfacing on the FACT that she did NOT have a sexual relationship with John, anywhere! HenryDavidThoreau