2 comments/ 18397 views/ 0 favorites Ep. 03 A Desperate Caress By: Curse_Of_Undeath [AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the continuation of "Love Me Tomorrow", the morning after Randy and Rachel made love. To get the full story, read "Tramps Like Us" and "Love Me Tomorrow". I sincerely hope you enjoy this one too! Italicized dialog preceded with an asterisk denotes subtitled speech as, again; I know only a smattering of words in Korean.] It was the fourteenth day of September 2003. Lies. Randy sat, with his head in his hands, on the edge of his bed. He had spent the past week crying almost non-stop. His mind replayed the email that he had gotten from Rachel telling him that it was not only over, but that it never really began. All lies. Turns out she had been pining for Scott for the past few months and that she was only using Randy to ease her pain from Scott's rejection. It was bad enough to learn that she was only using him, but to learn it via email cut him deep inside. What was worse: she ended it with the line "we can still be friends". Randy had heard about that dreaded line, but never understood how much it hurt, and just how hypocritical it was. It was all lies. It was no wonder he could never reach her. She'd put a call-block on his cell number and the house phone number, the moment she left for Maine. All of the emails he tried sending to her were bounced back as being blocked, as well. He'd tried calling her house a couple times, until her mother threatened to call the police and report him as a 'stalker' if he tried reaching Rachel again. He never would have imagined that Rachel could be capable of such cowardice. Or such callousness and deceit. It was all a fucking lie!! He took a couple of weeks off from school, to move out of the dorm and back to the family home, and get his head together. He was unable to cry anymore; he felt numbed to the core. His mother understood exactly what he was going through, since she went through much the same thing when his father left her. She told him that she and his grandparents were there for him, if he needed to talk, then gave him his space so he could get all the hurt out. The thing was, he had no idea what to say. Words were useless. He hated the fact that he was worrying his family, and only served to make him feel even worse – if such a thing was possible. He didn't even respond to the knock on his bedroom door, when it came. He heard muffled voices outside, but he didn't hear them leave. Instead, after a moment, he heard the door open. "Yo, Randy," Mark Sinclair, the band's bassist, called to him, "Me and the guys have been really worried about ya, bro. We decided that what you need is a night of fun to take your mind off your troubles." "Not tonight, man," Randy said. "I'm not much in the mood." Mark entered the room, followed by the rest of the band. Mark stood an inch or two above six feet tall, and weighed just shy of two hundred pounds. He had long brown hair and his face seemed perpetually covered in stubble. Standing behind him was Rick Perry, the lead vocalist and rhythm guitarist. Although he was the shortest member of the band, he was easily the most intimidating. His head was shaved bald and a long red goatee hung from his chin. His build reflected his long years as a wrestler; he was stocky and well-muscled. Jon and Krista Castillo, the drummer and keyboardist, respectively – also the band's resident "couple", stayed just outside the doorway. Jon's long black hair hung between his shoulder blades, obscuring the bulk of the extensive, intricate skin-ink that completely covered his back. His wife, Krista, also had black hair, but with pink streaks dyed in. It was Krista who had the most piercings and tattoos of any of the band's members. Seven of her reputed thirteen piercings were on her face and ears, with another going through her navel. Only Jon knew exactly where – or what – the five remaining piercings were. Though, she'd forgotten to remove a piece of fine silver chain one day, before donning a low-cut tank-top and heading for practice. The chain appeared to cross her chest in a lateral manner, so the guys were guessing at least two of the "undisclosed" adornments were nipple-rings. Rick sat down next to Randy and firmly clasped his shoulder with a meaty hand. "You misunderstand, man. That wasn't a request. You need to get out, man. You don't look so good, and we don't wanna lose ya just because some bitch dumped you." Randy glared at him menacingly. Although he didn't disagree with Rick's assessment of Rachel, for some vague reason it still pissed him off to hear someone other than himself say it. Rick's expression softened, as he gauged Randy's look and realized that he'd somehow stepped over a boundary that shouldn't have been crossed. Rather than pursue the dangerous course, he did his best to back out of the mine-field. "What I'm trying to say, bro, is that chapter in your life's over. Her choice, not yours. You need to get beyond it all. What you need is some alcohol, good friends, and a hot Goth chick, to snap you out of your misery." "Yeah, Guevara," Jon said, using his nickname for Randy. "We figured that we'd all take a ride down to Providence, grab a couple hot dogs, and hit Emergence to have some fun." Randy's shoulders slumped even more as he gave in. He sighed and said, "Okay, I'll go. So Emergence's a Goth club?" "Yeah," Krista said. "As long as you're dressed the part, they won't bother carding you. Don't worry; I'll doll ya up real good." "All right, I'll go. Just give me some time to shower and shave, okay?" "No problem," Rick said. "We're here for ya, bro." Randy managed a slight smile as he thanked him. * * * * * * * Randy sat in the back of Jon's van and stared out the window as it sped down Interstate 95 towards Rhode Island. He was wearing a long sleeved black mesh shirt and a white-ruffled poets' shirt that Jon lent him, black leather pants, a trench coat, and combat boots. His black hair was teased with copious amounts of mousse, his fingernails were painted black, and his face was almost chalk white. His almond-shaped eyes were coated in black eyeliner and eye shadow, and his lips were painted black, as well. Mark commented that Randy resembled a more masculine version of Mana, the guitarist for Malice Mizer, a Japanese Goth rock band. Randy had to admit that his mood was improving, somewhat. He enjoyed the company of his band mates, and the camaraderie they shared, and he genuinely appreciated that they were trying to make him feel better. He also realized that – other than a few gigs in the greater Boston area – he had seldom left the Miskatonic region, and he had never been out of Massachusetts. 'Maybe a change of scenery is what I need,' Randy thought to himself. "Yo, Jong," Mark said, snapping Randy out of his thoughts. "Yeah?" he replied. "Are you okay, man? You've hardly said a word since we left Jon's house." "I'm all right, man," Randy said. "I'm just taking in the scenery. I've never been to Rhode Island before." "Really? Man, you do need to get out more," Mark said, clapping Randy's shoulder. Turning serious, he said, "Randy, you don't need to be looking for Miss Right tonight, or even Miss Right Now. Don't listen to Rick; you know how much of a man-whore he is." "Hey, I represent that remark!" Rick said. Everyone laughed at Rick's joke, and it eased the tension a bit. "That shit doesn't matter. We just want our friend back." Mark sighed. "And I want the old Jonger back." Randy smiled, genuinely touched by his friend's concern. "I really do appreciate you guys trying to help," he said, clasping Mark's shoulder. "I'll try not to be too much of a stick in the mud." "That's all we want, bro," Rick chimed in. "The best advice I can give for tonight is to drink . . . heavily!" "Yeah, Guevara," Jon said, "but if you yuke, YOU clean it up." "I'll try not to get to that point," Randy promised. It was a promise he planned on keeping. He remembered the first party he attended, just after he joined the band. The alcohol flowed freely, and no one cared that he was only seventeen. To say he drank too much was a gross understatement. He could honestly only remember patches of that night; he had to depend on his band mates to fill in the blanks. All he did remember was hanging over the railing of the frat house's front porch, fertilizing the lawn with everything he had eaten in the previous three hours. That, and feeling worse than he ever had, the following morning. After that, he vowed never to overdo it like he did that night. That and to never touch whiskey ever again. Soon, the van pulled off the freeway directly into downtown Providence, which turned out to be not at all unlike downtown Boston. Like Boston, Providence featured many old buildings from the Colonial Era, sitting next to modern skyscrapers. It wasn't long after, that Jon pulled the van into a parking lot across the street from a row of unremarkable buildings. Only one section caught his eye. At the corner of Richmond and Thayer streets was a section painted white, with a neon sign proclaiming, 'Spike's Junkyard Dogs'. "C'mon, Randy," Rick said. "We're gonna get a bite before the club opens." As Mark opened the door to the place for him, and the smell of food assailed his nostrils, Randy realized that he hadn't really eaten much in days. A few hot dogs would really hit the spot. The quintet walked into the small, crowded establishment. Street signs and chain link fence sections decorated the place, and the sounds of blaring pop music came from speakers mounted in the ceiling tiles. This night's clientele was predominantly dressed in either black or S&M gear, so Randy assumed that they would also be going to the same club as he. Looking at the menu, he made his decision and greeted the bored cashier. "Can I help you?" the cashier droned. "I'd like three hot dogs with cheese, ketchup, raw onions, and jalapeños," Randy replied. "And a Diet Coke . . . gotta watch my figure, you know." Randy waited patiently for his order. When it arrived, he paid the cashier and rejoined his band mates. Rick took one look at Randy's food and raised an eyebrow in alarm. "Dude, you eat jalapeños on your hot dogs? Man, how can you eat that?" "Like so," Randy said and downed half a hot dog in one bite. After swallowing he said, "Damn, these are the best hot dogs I've ever had." "Shit, onions too?" Krista said. "I pity the chick you get with." "I have no plans to 'get with' anyone tonight," Randy said, turning serious. "But just in case, I have some gum in my coat pocket." "What about the inevitable anal explosions?" Jon asked. Randy reached into his coat and pulled out a packet of Gas-X. "That's Cho for ya, prepared for everything!" Mark laughed, then paused and lowered his voice as he leaned closer to his friend. "You ARE prepared for everything, aren't you?" "If I meet a chick, and it comes to that, I'll get some rubbers at Stop & Shop," Randy said. "I'll probably need to get more smokes, anyway." Krista handed Randy half a pack of Djarum Specials. He sniffed the pack diffidently, then cocked his head and looked her in the eye. "Damn, Krista; these smell sweet, kinda like a baked ham. What are they?" "Kreteks," Krista replied. "Clove cigarettes. The first drag can be somewhat harsh, but the ones after that go down nice and easy." "Thanks, Krista," Randy said with a smile. "Don't mention it. I'm really still thinking of whatever babe you meet up with, tonight. They might help cover up your onion breath." "*Eh, bite me," Randy said in Korean with a laugh, which was joined in by his other band mates. He had taught them a few select Korean curse words and phrases, so they all understood him. The five friends finished their meals and stepped outside. Randy popped a Gas-X right away to prevent the inevitable gas and heartburn that usually followed his consumption of jalapeños. He pulled out a Djarum, put it to his lips, and lit it. It burned the back of his throat when he inhaled the first drag but, miraculously, he didn't cough. "You're good," Krista said. "Usually first timers hack up a lung on the first drag." "Man, it burns," Randy rasped, then licked his lips. "Tastes good and sweet, though," he said, after clearing his throat. Randy could hear a slight crackling noise as the cloves exploded from the heat. He took another drag, more confidently this time. "I could get used to these very easily," he said. "They're not cheap," Jon said. "They're about $10 a pack. You're better off going to New Hampshire where they don't charge sales tax. You can find 'em for five to six dollars a pack there." "Thank you very much," Randy said earnestly. "I really appreciate this." "Just try to have fun tonight," Krista said, putting her hand on his arm with a smile. Randy scanned the crowd. He could spot several clusters of black-clad club goers, ranging from those dressed simply in black t-shirts and pants to those dressed more outlandishly than even he. A couple even had horns surgically implanted on their heads. He noticed one woman of nearly Amazonian proportions whose large hourglass figure was harshly accentuated by a black leather corset. She was looking at him, smiling, when he caught her gaze. He looked her over with as much subtlety as he could, which – he had to admit – wasn't that much. Other than her caked-on black eyeliner and lipstick, the clown-white base of face-paint, her leather and spikes, and her hair – dyed fire-engine red – she looked as though she could have stepped out of a Victorian fashion plate. "She's hot, isn't she?" Mark said, snapping Randy out of his thoughts. Randy had to admit that the woman was quite attractive, saying as much to Mark. "You know, my friend," Mark said, "when a woman looks at you like that way, there's only one thing on her mind . . ." "Yep," Randy said with a smirk. "Usually, it's 'I wonder if he also watches Star Trek'." "Smart-ass," Mark said with a laugh, slapping his friend's shoulder. Out of all his band mates, Randy was closest to Mark, even though the bassist was ten years his senior. Like Randy, he was home schooled and was also an incorrigible geek. Mark had started out as Bloody Solstice's rhythm guitarist, but switched to bass when the band's original lead guitarist and bassist were fired for showing up once too often at gigs, too stoned to play. Rick, a capable guitarist in his own right, took up the vacant guitarist slot and settled into the rhythm guitarist's slot once Randy joined. Mark was also, second to Randy, the most socially awkward member of the group. Thus, the two had bonded rather quickly. The doors to the club opened and people began shuffling in, paying the doorman and showing IDs when requested. Rick shushed Randy when it looked like he was going to say something. The doorman recognized Rick and greeted him with a hug. "So how's the biz treating you guys?" he asked "Pretty good, Jared," Rick said. Jared glanced at Randy, then said to Rick, "That the new guy?" "Yep!" Rick said proudly. "Randy, this is Jared Thompson. Jared, this is Randy Cho, the best damned guitarist I've ever seen in my entire life." "You don't say!" Jared said. "He's 21, right?" "That's right!" Rick winked at Jared as he lied. "Come on in, then," Jared said, extending his hand to Randy. "Any friend of Rick's is a friend of mine." Randy took the offered hand and shook it. "Likewise, man." Once inside the club, Randy left the rest of the band for a bit. "I wanna take a look around," he told them. "I'll catch you in a bit, okay?" They nodded and waved him on, and so he meandered through the place, dodging clientele and wait-staff every few feet. As he had expected, the club was painted in dark colors and dimly lit. Here and there, gargoyles and elaborate wall sconces protruded from the walls, in an attempt to enhance the 'ambience' of the place for the Goth set who made it their regular hang-out. The air was already thick with the scent of sweat and smoke, while the club's patrons danced to the bass-heavy, synth-driven music. Sofas and chairs were tucked in a corner in the far back as if to give club goers comfortable seats to sit in while they watched people dance in a medium sized cage. On the right-hand side of the club were more sofas, chairs, and tables, one of which had been claimed by the Bloody Solstice crew. Mark spotted Randy and beckoned him to join them. "So whaddaya think?" Jon asked Randy, when he arrived at the table. "I like it here," Randy said. "The music's pretty good, too, if a bit depressing." "Dude, it's gothic synth pop, what do you expect?" Jon asked, laughing. Randy let the question pass without an answer. Knowing Jon, he assumed it was rhetorical, anyway. He turned to Mark and met his eyes, and Mark nodded knowingly. "I know," Mark said. The music reminded Randy of some of Rachel's creations that he had been listening to steadily for the past three months. At one point, Randy had obtained disc copies of some of them, and had given Mark a private 'listen'. Mark was simply letting him know that he knew what Randy was thinking, and agreed. Randy was interrupted from his melancholy reverie when Rick came to the table bearing five shot glasses filled with a clear liquid. "I propose a toast," Rick said as he sat down. "To friends, to metal, and to living life to its fullest. You never know when it's gonna end!" "Hear, hear!" the rest of the band mates said in unison, each downing their shots in one gulp. Randy recognized the taste as it burned down his throat and esophagus: vodka, one of the few varieties of hard liquor he'd still touch. He slammed the shot glass onto the table upside-down, and then lit one of his Turkish Royals. He found that smoking a cigarette helped ease the buzz into his head. He smiled and lay back as he exhaled. "You know what this occasion calls for?" he asked. Rick looked at him with a cocked eyebrow. Randy grinned and said, "Te-qui-la!", trying to toss a little Mexican accent into his voice, but winding up sounding more like the cartoon character, 'Speedy Gonzales'. "Now you're talking my language, mi amigo!" Jon said. Jon was quite proud of his Mexican heritage, and was the only member of the band that could down several shots of Cuervo and still stand up straight for longer than a few seconds. Randy handed Jon a twenty so he could pay for that particular round. Jon left, and promptly returned with five shot glasses filled to the rim with the yellow liquor. On a three-count, they each downed their shot simultaneously and slammed the glass rim-down on the table. "Okay guys," Krista said, already slurring her words, "you all know how to get to the hotel, right? 'Cause, as of now, none of us is in any shape to drive!" Krista, like Randy, was what people call a 'cheap date'; it didn't take many drinks for her to feel the effects. Randy started to raise his hand, but Mark stopped him. "Don't worry, bro," he said. "We'll get ya there, provided you leave with us." He winked to emphasize his point. Randy nodded and sat back. Then the opening notes of a song he recognized began playing, namely "2econd Skin" by Moonspell. "I don't know about you fuck-heads," Krista said, "but I'm gonna go dance." Krista stood up and left the seating area, with Jon in tow. Randy shrugged and walked toward the dance floor. Unlike his band mates, Randy actually had some dance training in the form of traditional Korean dance. He easily improvised to allow for the slithery beat of the song, impeded only by the slight haze of the alcohol. The song ended and immediately, the pounding bass drum of the next song began. A thick, heavily distorted guitar chord followed. It was one of Randy's favorite songs, and a favorite of his band mates as well. It was a rare occasion that Prong's "Snap Your Fingers, Snap Your Neck" didn't find its way onto Bloody Solstice's set list. Ep. 03 A Desperate Caress To Randy's pleasant surprise, the people on the dance floor continued dancing instead of forming a mosh pit, which was usually what happened when the song was played. Through the flash of the pulsing strobe light, he saw the towering form of the buxom redhead across the floor gyrating to the relentless beat. Soon, the song ended and Randy found his way back to the bar. He ordered a screwdriver and sat on the barstool, sighing heavily. A slower song came, next; one with a female vocalist droning about desperation. It hit a little too close for Randy's comfort, souring his mood almost immediately. A strange, yet – somehow – familiar, presence next to him got his attention. "Drinking to celebrate, or drinking to forget?" a sultry voice with a thick Boston accent asked him. Randy turned and met the woman's gaze. Her black-coated lips curled in a seductive smile. Randy smiled back weakly, prompting the woman's next words. "Ahh, drinking to forget . . . I see. So what was her name? Forget it, I don't wanna know." She extended her hand and said, "The name's Daria . . . Daria Fulci. And you are . . .?" "Randy Cho," he said, kissing her hand politely. "Well met, Son of Genghis," Daria said, with a smirk and a wink. "Likewise, Daughter of Caesar . . . that is, if we're going to continue claiming the bloodlines of mighty conquerors," Randy said, returning the wink. "I've never seen you around here . . . first time?" Randy nodded, and Daria continued her pleasant interrogation. "Where are you from, Randy?" "Arkham, born and raised," he replied. "Ahh, a Misky boy," she purred. "So is it true that Herbert West's ghost still roams the halls of Miskatonic Hospital?" "Yep!" Randy said. "If you're real quiet late at night, you can hear his anguished moans, crying out for loose sorority girls and cheap booze," he said dramatically. "I like you; you're fucking nuts, man," Daria said, slapping Randy's shoulder. "I live out in Beverly, but I was born in Boston . . . North End." "I can kinda tell," Randy said with a smile, "a pretty Italian girl like you." "You think I'm pretty?" After Randy nodded, Daria said, "You're not so bad yourself, hot stuff. So what's your plan after you leave? I saw you enter with a good sized group." "Gonna crash at a hotel room with my friends to sleep off the liquor, then back home the following day." "Would your friends be too disappointed if you don't leave with them? I wouldn't mind getting to know you a little better." Daria let the innuendo hang in the air with her last statement. Randy looked over at his band mates still at their table. Mark looked back at him, then grinned like an idiot and flashed a 'thumbs-up' sign. Rick gave an approving look, and then gestured for Randy to go and have fun with his new acquaintance. "I'm gonna take that as a 'no'," Randy said, nodding his head to lead Daria's gaze over to his band-mates and still see them grinning and leering at him, thumbs all raised high in the air. He laughed and continued, "In fact, I think they're trying to get rid of me." "Well, I didn't come here with anyone, so I've got no reason to stay here, if you don't." "I've never really been one for socializing," Randy admitted. "At least, not in places where you have to scream yourself hoarse to be heard over the P-A system. Let's take our leave. Just gimme a minute to say good-bye to my friends." "Cool!" Daria said. "I'm gonna go to the ladies' room, and I'll meet you outside!" Randy watched the woman as she left. He noticed that her walk had a definite slink to it, and he had to admit that he liked it. She had what could only be called 'ghetto booty', which was undoubtedly a result of the tight corset. Randy walked over to his friends and informed them that he was going to head out with Daria. "Way to go, doom brother!" Rick said. "Not really my type, but I know you like 'em big. She looks like she can get kinky, too." "Yeah," Krista said. "Goth chicks tend to be the kinky types." "You know this from personal experience?" Rick said. "Why yes, yes we do," Jon said, which earned a slap upside the head from Krista. Mark clasped Randy's hand and gave him a hug. "Good luck, man," he said. "You're gonna be okay, brother." "Thanks guys," Randy said. "I'll try and call you all tomorrow to let you know if it went okay." Randy went to the men's room to wash the makeup from his face, and then left the club, saying good-bye to Jared on his way out. "Leaving already?" he asked. Daria stepped outside and put her arm around Randy, a 'cat-that-ate-the-canary' grin on her face.. "Ahhhh, gotcha," Jared said. "Well, have fun, man!" "Thanks!" Randy said as he walked with Daria to her car. * * * * * * * "So what do you do with yourself when you're not dressed up like a guy in a Visual Kei band?" Daria asked as she sped her car up I-95. Randy gave the abridged version. "I play guitar for a death metal band called Bloody Solstice and when I'm not doing that, I help my grandfather out at his Tae Kwon Do school. Other than that, I'm on my second year at Miskatonic," he said. "Right on," Daria said. "By the way, you look better without all that makeup. Normally, I like a guy who wears makeup well, but you look a little too pretty in it, even for me." "The keyboardist did my makeup. Personally, I would've opted for something simpler, but hey, what do I know, right? My friends took me out to try and cheer me up." "Woman troubles?" she asked, her voice dropping a bit in volume, and taking on a soft, understanding tone. Randy nodded, then realized she probably couldn't see that gesture. "Yeah," he said, leaving it at that. He didn't feel like going into all the details, unless she pressed him about them. "Well, maybe I can help you feel better," she suggested, putting her hand on his thigh to emphasize her point. Randy laid his hand on top of Daria's and smiled at her. He felt awkward about the situation, and had a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he shouldn't be doing this, but couldn't have explained it to anyone if they'd asked. It wasn't guilt; there was no reason for him to feel guilty. It was Rachel who left him, and not the other way around. Still, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that – somehow – he was doing something wrong. "You okay?" Daria asked. "You know, if you don't want anything to happen, just let me know. We can just sit around and talk, if that's what you want." "Thank you," Randy told her sincerely, "but I'm alright. I should probably tell you that I've only been with one woman, so I'm just feeling kind of awkward." "Only one? How old are you, anyway?" Daria asked him, trying not to make her question sound like an attack. "I'm eighteen," he said, then chuckled and added, "That place would probably lose its liquor license if they knew how old I really was." "Eh, I don't think so," Daria laughed heartily. "The fuzz rarely ever go there. Hell, I drank there when I was your age, and that was fourteen years ago!" Randy looked at her in shock. Daria caught his surprised expression and laughed again. "You didn't think I was that old, did you?" she chuckled. "It's okay, cutie, I appreciate the compliment." "I'm glad," Randy laughed. "but, now I'm wondering if you'll find my experience . . . adequate." "You strike me as a man who knows the basics of how to handle himself with a woman," Daria told him in a serious tone. "And life is a constant role-changing experience. We all have our times of being the student, and the times when we're the mentor." "True enough," Randy had to agree. "So don't worry," Daria told him, looking away from the road for long enough to flash him a smile. She squeezed his thigh harder and grinned evilly, "I'll be gentle . . . or rough, depending on what you like. And I have a hunch you'll be more than adequate!" Randy had to admit that the thought of sharing a bed with this woman was not an unpleasant one. His cock twitched inside his leather pants at the prospect of slipping into something new. Still, the 'performance anxiety' persisted. It had been bad enough, when he'd thought that Daria was only three years his senior at the minimum. But, fourteen? The thought of how many lovers she could have had, all the things she might want that he didn't know how to do . . . 'Dammit, I need a cigarette,' Randy thought to himself. He looked around and saw a half-empty pack of Newports sitting in the cup holder in the console between the seats. One of the cigarettes was between the fingers of Daria's left hand, already half consumed, and she was once again bringing it to her lips. He studied her intently as she took the drag, inhaled, and then exhaled through primly pursed lips. She looked rather like a heroine in an old 'noire' detective film – if Tim Burton had directed the film, that is. He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of his own, rolled down the window slightly, and lit up. The smoke, filling and escaping his lungs, helped ease his nerves. "So, have you ever been to Beverly?" Daria asked. "Not really," he answered. "The closest I've ever been was a gig in Salem on Halloween. That was a fun one. Probably the biggest draw we've ever gotten. I'm not too big on Salem, myself. Other than the Peabody/Essex Museum, most of the town is a witchcraft-oriented tourist trap, and a load of hyped-up bullshit. I'm just glad that Salem got all the press and not Arkham. If people knew half of the shit that supposedly went down in Arkham, we'd be under a constant deluge of tourists." "So the stories aren't true? There was no 'witch house' . . . no Wilbur Whateley . . . no Necronomicon hidden in Miskatonic's vaults . . . no demon wolves prowling the surrounding woods?" "There are no wolves in Massachusetts; everyone knows that. I mean, there may be some in a zoo, here and there, but they're locked in cages." He paused, taking another drag from his cigarette, before continuing his explanation. "The alleged witch house burned down, about thirty years ago. It was chalked up to electrical problems, but there are rumors that it was arson. Apparently, some local wanted the constant stream of tourist-traffic in the area to just go away. House burns down and, presto, no more cars full of tourists. The fire was never investigated, though, so I don't know if the authorities ever did manage to determine how it started. "As for the Necronomicon, I don't know; I always thought that it was the invention of some old fart's overactive imagination, but the legend is still really strong. We're talking about things most commonly referred to in stories that were written about eighty years ago, you know. When the tales are that old, it gives the 'legends' plenty of time to dig in and get ingrained in the local psyche. I do remember an incident that happened about five years ago. The library was robbed and several old books were stolen. The cops never disclosed what the books were, but they did say that the volumes were apparently worth well over a million dollars. The big rumor was that one of the books that was stolen was the Necronomicon. Supposedly, the Book of Eibon and another called Von Asslicken Somethingorother, or something like that . . . apparently those were nabbed, too. Anyway, I think that's all bullshit, myself." "You seem to know all about your town's urban legends," Daria said. "Being born and raised in Arkham, it's impossible not to be fairly well-versed on the subject," Randy admitted, chuckling. "There is one interesting side-light to the story, though. When the witch house burned down, someone put up a franchise McDonald's. The place only lasted five years, before it went belly-up. And that never happens to a McDonald's. They've tried opening up several businesses on that lot, in the years since then, but none of them lasted more than a few years." "That's something that doesn't submit itself to logical explanation," Daria suggested. "Maybe there was something to the old stories." "Maybe," Randy shrugged. "My friends and I used to dare each other to go into the abandoned building, back when we were kids. I can't remember any of us actually having the balls to go through with the dare. To this day, something about that place still gives me the creeps. Shit, there are some parts of the Misky campus that I'm reluctant to go to, and I'm not the only one, either." "Well, most legends do have some basis in fact," Daria said. "True enough. The witch house did exist, and Miskatonic did have a med student back in the '20s or so, named Herbert West, who went nuts. But then, every town has its weird tales and its crazies. One of my college professors spent a whole week lecturing on how famous authors can take a simple tragic local tale and blow it all out of proportion into some horrible, ghoulish legend." "Yeah I know," Daria agreed. "Fuck, I can tell you some tales about Beverly. Hey, I'm gonna stop at Shaw's on the way to my place. Are you gonna need anything?" "Actually, yeah," Randy said. "I'll come in with you." Daria nodded and continued driving, occasionally quietly singing the words to whatever tune was playing on the car's stereo. They exchanged small talk, on the way to the store, each sharing humorous anecdotes about their lives. Randy was reluctant to share too much, particularly about his school experiences or his relationship with Rachel, but Daria didn't seem to make an issue of his reticence. They finally arrived at the Shaw's supermarket in Beverly. Of course, their appearance - the clothes they wore, and the remnants of Daria's make-up – drew a few strange stares from the few shoppers who were there at that hour, much to their amusement. It was a quick stop, though; how long does it take to pick up cigarettes, snacks, and some condoms? Shaw's was followed immediately by a stop at a nearby liquor store, where Randy wisely waited in the car. Daria spent fifteen minutes inside the shop, emerging with a medium-sized paper bag and a twelve-pack of Icehouse. They arrived at Daria's small apartment at about half past one in the morning. Though the floor in the apartment was cluttered with various objects, Randy still followed habit and removed his shoes. He helped Daria off with her coat, garnering a raised eyebrow and a smile from her for his action, and then shrugged out of his own coat, draping both garments over the back of a chair. Daria leaned toward him and gave him a brief kiss. "I'll be right back, sweets," she told him. "I just wanna get out of this makeup. Besides, I feel like I'm gonna burst! My back teeth are floating!" "No worries; I'll be here," Randy responded, already investigating her bookshelves. * * * * * * * Daria walked into her bathroom and removed her boots, taking a good two inches off her height. As she freshened up, she massaged her sore feet. She loved how her boots made her feet look, and enjoyed the additional height they offered her already-impressive 6'1" frame, but she always felt like she could barely walk, after a night of dancing and partying in them. Removing her wig, she pulled her auburn hair back into a ponytail to keep it from getting wet while she washed the layer of greasepaint from her face. After applying a few deft touches of 'normal' makeup, she let her hair down again and brushed the tangles out of it. The time she spent allowed her to think of the new friend who was patiently waiting for her in the living room. She couldn't help but like Randy. She had always had kind of a 'thing' for Asian guys, and the handsome young man was quite a catch. She had noticed him, early on, standing in the queue in front of the club, and studied the way he carried himself and the play of expressions on his face. Her appraisal of him was that he was rather troubled, most probably from a relationship ending recently and painfully. Having spent some time with him, she had found him to be quite mature and extremely intelligent, for someone so relatively young. She couldn't imagine how any woman in her right mind would set a sweet man like Randy free, and a part of her wished that she could be the one to help him mend. However, her own heart had been broken countless times, by both men and women, and the memory of those times made her reluctant to pursue any sort of serious relationship. She had a nagging feeling that this night probably wouldn't end very well, but she was determined to make the most of it, to make the most of whatever time with Randy fate would allow her. Meanwhile, in the living room, Randy was doing his own thinking while looking at Daria's bookshelves. He'd always heard it said that you could learn a lot about a person's nature from the books they enjoyed, the music they listened to, and the films they viewed, and Daria's library was an eye-opener, to say the least. Most of the shelf space was occupied by horror and true crime books, as well as books on the topic of BDSM, fetish culture, and female dominance. Her DVD collection of slasher flicks and B-movies was impressive, even compared to his own sizable collection. He noticed several films from Troma Studios, including one of his favorites, The Toxic Avenger. He also noticed some triple-X rated films, including several films on bondage as well as women using dildoes on men. "Uh-oh," he muttered to himself. "I wonder if she plans on doing anything like that to me . . ." "Anything like what?" Daria's voice startled him. He turned, quickly, and saw her standing in the doorway. His eyes widened and a smile played about his lips as he took in the change in her appearance. The fire-engine-red hair had vanished, replaced by auburn locks that cascaded over her shoulders, and the black leather corset and other trappings had been supplanted by a form-fitting thigh-length black dress and black fishnet stockings. The ever-present smirk, however, appeared to be permanently affixed to her lovely lips. Randy knew he was busted, so he didn't bother trying to lie. Instead, he held up the DVD, Bend Over Boyfriend #3, that he had been examining when she'd caught him. "Not if you don't want me to," she laughed heartily. "There aren't too many guys who would bend over, at least not for a girl." Randy laughed, and then thought for a moment. He and Rachel had done some anal play with fingers and tongues, and he certainly liked being on the giving end of anal sex. He also loved it when Rachel took control, during sex. Although he had no attraction for men, he wondered what it would feel like to totally relinquish control, and to be on the receiving end. His experience with the kinkier side of sexual expression had been quite limited, and he'd never known that some women actually would strap on a dildo and fuck a man, until seeing images of that very thing on the DVD cover just now. He put the DVD away and stood in front of Daria, at that moment feeling really, really short. He always thought he was fairly tall, at five feet nine inches and, now, here was this sexy woman towering over him in her bare feet. Daria ran her fingers through his long black hair and pulled him in hard, for a kiss, stealing his breath away. As the kiss deepened, he wrapped his arms around her ample waist, cupping her buttocks with his hands. Through the fabric of her dress, he could tell that she wasn't wearing panties underneath. Just her sexy fishnet stockings and a garter belt to help hold them up. His cock, already hard from the intensity of the kiss, throbbed upon receipt of that knowledge. Daria reached down and gently squeezed his crotch. "Hmm, looks like someone needs some attention," she purred in his ear. "Come into my room and we can get comfortable." Taking him gently by the hand, Daria led him back a short hallway and into her bedroom. She turned on a set of black lights, setting some of her wall posters, as well as Randy's shirt, aglow. As he took his shirt off and sat on her four-posted bed, Daria got on her hands and knees and reached under her bed, giving Randy a chance to ogle her the outline of her luscious ass-cheeks through the fabric of her thin dress. After a moment, she stood up, holding a small cigar box. Curling one leg beneath her body, she sat next to him on the bed and opened the box, revealing a ceramic pipe and a baggie filled with a dark olive-green mass that Randy recognized as being marijuana. He'd seen it often enough, backstage at clubs where he'd played, but had never tried the stuff; he'd heard it messed with coordination, and he valued his skill on the guitar. He wasn't in any hurry to experiment with the drug, even away from gigs, but he figured that it wouldn't hurt to try it just this once. Maybe it might help take his mind off of Rachel – keep her image from swimming in front of his eyes the way it always did, and let him totally enjoy the night, and the sexy woman next to him on the bed. Ep. 03 A Desperate Caress Daria packed the bowl, put it to her lips and lit up, taking a good-sized toke. Holding her breath, she brought her lips to Randy's. "Take it, baby," she urged, her voice sounding strange as she tried to speak without expelling any of the smoke. Randy got the idea, and opened his lips slightly, inhaling the smoke as she exhaled it gently into his mouth. "Okay, now hold it in for as long as you can," she said softly. Randy held his breath for about a minute and a half before exhaling. He started feeling a little lightheaded and euphoric already, but wondered if – perhaps – part of that was psychosomatic, his mind expecting to feel high since he'd inhaled the drug. "Take your hit, baby," Daria said. "I'm gonna put on some music." Randy put the bowl to his lips, took as big a toke as he could, and held it as Daria walked over to the stereo and put a CD in the player, pressing play. When she came back, Randy put his mouth to Daria's and exhaled into it. She blew the smoke out slowly and smiled with content as dark, ambient music began filling the room. "You're doing good, sweetie," Daria said as she touched Randy's face. "I figured some music would set the mood." Randy smiled and kissed Daria tenderly. The guilt and awkwardness he was feeling earlier was slipping away. He took another hit, after Daria took hers, and lay down on the bed. When the pot was spent, she straddled Randy's hips and kissed him passionately. Randy's surroundings seemed to become an soft blur as his hands explored her body. The music permeating the bedroom seemed to envelop their bodies in a sonic cocoon. Daria crawled up his body, then, lifting her dress, and straddled his face. She ripped a hole in the crotch of her stockings and let the dress fall around her waist and Randy's head. He began feeling a sort of sensory deprivation as the fabric from the dress eliminated most of his surroundings, leaving only his mouth and Daria's sweet-smelling pussy. He knew exactly what to do, making her "Eat my pussy, baby!" command totally unnecessary. Daria put her hands on the bedroom wall to steady herself as Randy began his oral assault. Her hips twitched involuntarily against his tongue as heated moans and cries erupted from her throat. 'Damn, this kid's good," she thought to herself. 'That bitch was an idiot for letting this one go! Oh, well; her loss is my gain!' "That's right, you dirty boy," she growled aloud, goading him, "eat that wet cunt real good. Oh yesssssssss . . ." Her words fell on deaf ears; nonetheless, Randy obeyed her command. Surprisingly, her taste was slightly different from Rachel's; it was slightly muskier, and her scent was headier. It was not unpleasant, though, and he licked and slurped Daria's hole with relish, breaking off at random intervals to bare his teeth and nibble lightly on her engorged clit. Suddenly, she got off him and pulled his pants and boxers off. She glared down at his throbbing cock and clutched it like a stick shift in a car. She tickled his scrotum with the tip of a fingernail as her mouth curled in a feral snarl. Her expression softened, then, and she gave him a brief smile. "Do you need some attention, darling?" "Yes," Randy said. Suddenly, everything in the room seemed to shift, and the entire mood changed. Daria's face took on an angry, snarling expression, and her eyes glared fiercely into his. "Yes WHAT?!" Randy was at a loss for the proper response. He had never done anything quite like this before. He'd read some references to dominance-submission on the Internet, though, and this situation was beginning to take on that general appearance. Hazily, he remembered that he'd seen some videos in her collection, and some books in her library, on female dominance. He began to get the feeling that Daria was going to completely dominate him. The thought was not an unpleasant one, but he was ignorant enough of that culture to be unsure of anything. "Yes . . . master?" he stammered. Daria appeared to become furious as she practically tore her dress off over her head and flung it across the room. "Do I look like a 'master', to you, boy?" she growled, running her hands upward from her waist and cupping her voluptuous breasts with them. She gestured to her slit and said, "Does this look like a cock to you? Huh?! When I ask you a question, or when I command you to do something you will respond, 'yes MISTRESS!' or 'No, MISTRESS!' Do you understand?" "Yes, mistress," Randy replied, smiling for an instant as he began to gain a bit of confidence. "Good, now get on the floor on your knees." "Yes, Mistress!" Randy responded, slipping off the mattress to kneel on the floor in front of her. "Good boy," she purred. "Now, kiss my feet, and lick them!" "Yes, mistress," he said as he obeyed her command. The entire scene was foreign to him, but he began kissing her feet as reverently as he knew how. She lifted a foot and commanded him to hold it up. He did so, and began licking and sucking her toes. "Good . . . you're such a good boy . . . I should reward you . . . later," she said. "Thank you, mistress," Randy said, doing his best to support the weight. Gradually, through the fog of the drug in his system, he became aware that he was beginning to get into what she was doing. She had completely taken control, and was guiding him to places he had never been. And he liked it. "Okay, stop," Daria commanded. Her leg was beginning to get tired and shaky. "But stay on your knees." Randy obeyed, watching while she crawled across the bed to her nightstand and pulled out a black strip of fabric and a leather collar. He remained still while she covered his eyes with the strip of fabric and tied it behind his head. He felt the leather collar go around his neck, and heard the sound of a metal clip – a leash – being fastened to one of the rings. She pulled the lead gently, moving Randy towards the bed. "Now lay on the bed," she ordered. "Yes, mistress." He obeyed and, working by touch alone, got up onto the mattress and settled himself on his back. He laid there, silent and wondering, listening to the sounds as she stalked about the room opening first one drawer, then another. A few minutes later, he felt cold metal touch his left wrist and fasten around it, and then his arm was stretched out and he heard another clicking sound. He realized that he was being handcuffed to the bed. The process was repeated, a moment later, with his right wrist. Then he felt her lips near his ear, followed by the wetness of her tongue as she gave his earlobe a sensuous lick that sent chills up and down his spine. She moved, again, and he heard the rustling as she settled into place by his side a moment later. He felt her touch as she slid the blindfold up onto his forehead, and he opened his eyes to look up at her. Her expression was soft and kind. "Thank you for playing along, Randy, and thank you for trusting me," she said, letting her voice slip from that of the dominant character she had been portraying. "Are you still alright?" "Sort of," he shrugged. "This stuff is all new to me, though. I don't know all the rules. And, you hear stories, now and then, about what happens to some women, when they let a strange guy take them home. I guess it can happen in reverse, too." "A little nervous? Maybe even a little worried that you've stepped into one of those situations, baby?" she asked him, and he could see the concern in her eyes. "I guess," he nodded. "You can relax on that count, honey," she chuckled. "I'm not your worst nightmare. But, so that you understand things a little better, let me explain it to you. I'm in control, and I'm going to dominate you as we fuck. You'll do what I say, just like a few moments ago, and respond as you've already learned. Clear, so far?" Randy simply nodded, and Daria resumed her explanation. "If you want me to stop because I'm hurting you, or if you're feeling too uncomfortable with something I'm doing to you, just say 'red' and I'll stop. You need to remember that word, though. If you say "no" to something I tell you to do, or just say "stop", I'll assume that you're simply playing along with the scenario, resisting my commands in order to make me get even more forceful with you. Does that make sense?" "'Red' means 'stop, you're hurting me' or 'stop, I don't like what you're doing to me'. 'Stop' just means 'I dare you to make me do it.' "You're a pretty quick study, darling," she smiled down at him, slipping the blindfold back into position over his eyes. Back in character, she snarled, "Do you understand?" "Yes, mistress." "Good," she whispered sweetly, leaning down and licking his ear again, before standing. Randy felt gentle kisses on his chest trailing down to his stomach. He wished he could watch what she was doing, but with his sight now deprived from him, it allowed him to hear and feel everything with an astonishing degree of clarity. Her hands, now apparently in satin gloves, caressed his body as she kissed and licked her way down to Randy's drooling cock. Then all sensations stopped; he guessed that she had gotten up and walked away from him, but he could tell she was still in the room by the sounds of her footsteps and the shuffling of what sounded like leather. He heard a creaking noise by the foot of the bed. She must have walked to the foot of the bed and was now bending over it. His guess was correct, as he felt a satin-clad finger stroke the vein on the underside of his shaft, and Daria's teeth nibbling on his inner thigh. His breathing sped up as she inched closer to his scrotum with her tongue. "Are you enjoying this?" Daria purred. "Y-y-y-es, mistress," Randy stammered, the sensations of her touch putting the quaver in his voice. "Your reward will come soon enough, boy," she said. "Thank you, mistress." Randy felt his legs being lifted up and spread wide, then he felt her tongue begin to touch his perineum. Randy began to moan louder as she licked him from his scrotum to his anus and back. 'So that's how it feels,' he thought to himself. He understood, then, why Rachel enjoyed it so much when he did it to her. He wondered, briefly, why they'd never tried it like that while they were together. Randy felt himself get lifted up, and then felt Daria's tongue begin to fuck him. Involuntarily, he bolted semi-upright, the shackles digging into his wrists. "Omigod, yes," he cried. 'Fuck,' he thought to himself, 'Was I supposed to talk?' Daria didn't seem to notice, or pretended not to notice. She was too busy probing Randy's asshole with her tongue and pulling his scrotum gently with a free hand. Then she stopped. "Were you liking that, boy?" she snarled. "Yes, ma-ma-ma-mistress," Randy stuttered. "Shhh, Randy; don't worry," she said. "I won't hurt you . . . at least not in ways I don't think you'd like." He couldn't tell if she was speaking in character or not; he figured that it was a mixture of both. He heard drawers opening, then heard a squeeze bottle snap open, then closed. "If I'm hurting you," Daria said, breaking character again, "just say 'red', remember?" Randy nodded and said, "Gotcha." Daria noticed he didn't say 'yes, mistress', but let it go. She could tell he was starting to worry because he had spoken out of turn, but she'd spoken out of character to him, and he'd never played games of this sort before. She figured that, since Randy had only had one prior sexual partner, the odds were that he'd never had a woman lick his ass, or tongue-fuck it, as she'd just done. Most of her previous male partners had told her that having their assholes licked was an incredibly intense feeling. Thus, she couldn't rightly blame him for his outburst. She touched his cheek gently, and was assured by his smile that he was okay. "All right, boy," she said flatly, back in character. "I'm going to prepare you for your reward. Do you understand?" "Yes, mistress," Randy said. Randy felt Daria's tongue enter his asshole again. She stopped, and he felt her hands spread his ass cheeks open. "Do you trust me, boy?" she said. "Yes, mistress," he said. Randy felt something hard and plastic touch his anus, and he figured out what she was about to do to him. He started having doubts as to whether or not he wanted things to continue this way. 'Well, I've enjoyed everything she's been doing to me, so far, and she'd promised that her intent wasn't to hurt me, that she'd stop right away, if I say that code-word...maybe I oughtta let her go ahead.' He held his breath, slightly, and waited. "Breathe, boy!" Daria ordered him. "Hold your breath, and you tense up. It will hurt, then!" "Yes, Mistress," he sighed, letting the captured air loose and resuming his normal breathing pattern. Randy felt the plastic begin vibrating, and then enter him slowly. The vibrations became more intense, the buzzing louder. The sensation shocked Randy; it wasn't only the realization that Daria was going to fuck him with a vibrator, it was the fact that he really liked it. He moaned louder as the plastic tube vibrated against his prostate, his dick throbbing angrily for release. He felt Daria's mouth engulf his cock, sucking him hard. This was perhaps one of the most intense sensations he had felt in his life. His hips bucked involuntarily as Daria fucked him harder with the dildo and sucked his cock. "Holy shit . . . unnhh . . . uuuunnnnhhh," he moaned. 'Was this the reward she was alluding to?' he thought to himself. "All right boy," Daria said, "I think you're ready for your reward. Are you ready?" 'What? That wasn't the reward?' he thought. "No, it wasn't the 'reward', boy," she told him, managing to chuckle and still remain in her dominatrix character – and he realized that he'd actually spoken the thought aloud. "That was only the ...appetizer." "I'm ready, mistress," he said. He heard some shuffling, then felt the bed rock a little as Daria climbed onto the mattress. He felt his hips get lifted up again, then felt a pillow being placed underneath him. Randy felt Daria mount him between his legs, then felt something soft and rubbery outside of his anus. 'Oh my god, she's gonna fuck me,' he thought to himself. On one hand, he was terrified, but his twitching cock betrayed his anticipation. Daria adjusted the phallus strapped to her hips, situated Randy, and slowly entered him. Randy figured that Daria must've done this before, because she was very gentle with him. She moved slowly, making sure that he was getting used to being filled. He adjusted his hips so she could get better penetration, and to get used to this new feeling. A guttural moan escaped his lips when he felt her completely inside him. He felt the shackles open as she unlocked the handcuffs, freeing his hands. Then Daria removed the blindfold. Randy's eyes were greeted with the sight of a radiant woman wearing only her leather corset and a strap-on. She must have put it back on after she blindfolded him, he realized. She'd been wearing it with her outfit at the club, but it hadn't been part of her wardrobe when she'd ripped the dress off, later. She smiled at him nurturingly, as she stroked his cheek. "You're such a beautiful man," Daria said as she lowered her body to his and wrapped her arms around him. She pressed her lips to his, kissed him passionately. She fucked him slowly missionary-style, the dildo pumping his ass gently. This sensation, he felt, was more intense than when she'd used the vibrator on him. He never thought sex could be like this. He groaned with the pleasure, and Daria broke the kiss, fucking him a little harder. He closed his eyes as the waves of pleasure built. "Do you like that, baby?" she asked him, in a soft, low, cooing tone. Randy opened his eyes and saw Daria with her hands on his hips thrusting in and out of him. He realized that the role-playing was over. It was no longer mistress and slave; only Daria and Randy. "Oh yeah, Daria . . . feels so good," he moaned. "I'm really glad you're liking this," she told him, her own voice quavering with her excitement. She stroked in and out of him for another minute or so, and then – suddenly – he felt her withdraw completely. Though, in a way, the relief from the pressure felt good, he also felt a sort of empty feeling, wondering whether – if she'd continued – he would have had an orgasm from the stroking. "Get on your hands and knees, baby," she ordered in voice husky with passion and desire. Randy realized what she had in mind, so he didn't hesitate in complying with her request. As he settled himself into the new position, an idea occurred to him, and he leaned his body forward, toward the head of the bed. He felt Daria kneel behind him and position the fake cock. The moment she began to enter him, he backed up, slowly fucking himself onto the rubber phallus. "Ooohhh! You do like this, don't you, baby!" Daria groaned in surprise and pleasure. "Oohhhhhh yessssss," Randy groaned. "Yeah, fuck me, baby." Daria started slowly, then quickened her pace. She placed her hands on his waist, occasionally slapping him on the ass. Randy moaned louder and louder, his cock throbbed harder. A puddle of pre-cum began forming on the bed underneath him. After a while, he couldn't take it anymore; he needed to be inside this woman. "Please let me fuck you, Daria," he begged. "You want my tight cunt, baby?" Daria teased. "Yes, baby," he groaned, "I want your tight cunt." Daria began fucking him even harder. "How bad do you want to fuck my hot, juicy pussy, baby? Beg for it." "Pleeeassse . . . . please let me fuck your pussy, I need it real bad," he begged. "I want to make you feel as good as you're making me feel!" Daria couldn't deny her own need to be filled any longer. Her games had been turning her on fiercely, and she knew that she'd most likely cum the moment his dick touched her. She pulled out and removed the strap-on. Randy got up and she took his place. He rolled the condom onto his cock, remembering the instructions his grandfather gave him, and positioned himself behind her putting the head of his cock to her slick, burning walls. He entered her very easily; she was practically dripping wet. "Don't tease me, baby," Daria groaned, "just fuck me hard! Fuck meeeeeeeeeeeee . . . " Randy complied without thinking and began pounding her insides with his cock. Their bodies slapped together loudly, and Daria bit into the pillow to muffle her screaming. As his pounding continued, the pleasure grew too great for her to contain. She reared her head and cried out like an air raid siren warning of impending attack as she came. Randy couldn't hold back any longer either, and let loose a huge wad of semen into the condom's reservoir as his cock pulsed inside her. Finally, his legs began to wobble and he collapsed on the bed on his back next to her. As steadily as he could, he removed the condom and disposed of it in the wastebasket next to her nightstand. Daria rolled over until she lay in his arms, silently laying her head on his chest. A myriad of thoughts raced through her mind. She found herself quickly becoming attached to Randy, but she also knew that he was on the rebound. She knew, from experience, that most rebounded relationships never work out in the long run. She realized that to pursue something with Randy was to pursue heartbreak for both of them, and she knew that Randy had enough heartbreak to last him awhile. As she lay there, she steeled herself for what she knew she must do. Randy also laid on the bed, deep in thought. It was true that, physically, what had happened was one of the greatest experiences of his life. But, through it all, thoughts of Rachel still entered his mind and squeezed his heart. The intensity of the sensations had helped keep his thoughts of her at bay but, now that it was over, they rushed back into his head with reinforcements. He shut his eyes and tried to chase the thoughts away, but it was useless. Ep. 03 A Desperate Caress Daria got up and took the corset off, then began getting dressed in sweats and a t-shirt. "I really hate to kick you out, sweets," she said, "but I have to work, early tomorrow afternoon." "It's okay. I have school tomorrow anyways and, as it is, I'm probably not gonna get much sleep. I've got a feeling that, if I stayed, neither of us would get much rest." They were both lying to each other; Daria worked third shift, and Randy was taking another week off from school. Randy crawled from the bed and dressed in silence. The physical chemistry that had existed between them was gone, replaced by a terrible awkwardness. The two had gone from strangers, to chums, to lovers, and back to strangers, all within a matter of hours. The awkwardness persisted as Daria drove him back to Arkham, with Randy breaking the silence only to give her directions. Soon, but in some ways not soon enough, Daria's car was in front of Randy's house. "Thanks for the ride home, Daria," he said. "I really appreciate it." "No problem, Randy," Daria said with a smile. "It was the very least I could do, after the 'ride' you gave me!" "Will we ever see each other again?" he asked soberly. "Well, if you're ever at Emergence again, you might find me," she shrugged. Randy got out of the car and walked around to the driver's side, giving her one last kiss and wishing her a safe trip back home. "Thanks . . . for everything," he whispered the words in her ear, then pulled away and headed toward the house. Daria watched as he walked into the front door and out of her life forever. She turned the ignition and drove off. She held her emotions in check until she came to a small convenience store along the road. Pulling into the parking lot, she shut off the engine and cried harder than she had in over ten years. * * * * * * * Mi Na Cho ran down the sidewalk leading to her front door as the school bus pulled away from the curb. It was a crisp Monday afternoon, and the leaves were starting to turn. Normally, she would've taken her time to admire the scenery. Not today. She was too worried for her brother. He had spent all of the previous week crying and sitting motionless on the edge of his bed. Last night, he had gone out with his friends and hadn't come home until the wee hours of the morning. When she passed by his room on her way to breakfast, she peered in to see him out cold still in his clothes. She didn't understand what was happening. All she knew was that Randy was sad because Rachel broke his heart. Her mind couldn't comprehend why, and her mother and grandparents weren't forthcoming with answers. "You'll understand when you're older," they told her. "Now, just leave Brother alone." She stopped running when she got to her house, then stamped her foot. 'I'm not going to leave him alone,' she thought. 'Brother needs me.' She clutched the gift she had gotten for Randy in one hand, then stepped inside the house and up to Randy's room. She tapped on the door, then opened it slowly. He was in his usual spot: sitting perfectly still on the edge of his bed, seemingly more morose than before. She hated seeing her brother like this. Mi Na had always been one of the only people he'd ever opened up to and, by the same token, he had always been fiercely protective of her ever since their father left. Now it was her turn to protect him. Her hand squeezed the gift, a fistful of flowers, harder as she slowly approached the hulking form of her brother. She had never seen him like this, and had no idea how he would react. Mi Na tapped him gently on the shoulder. Slowly, Randy faced his intruder. He had spent the past several hours contemplating his future, whether or not he was destined to be used and discarded by any woman he allowed himself to be involved with. He looked, and his eyes met Mi Na's. She looked almost pensive as she clutched a bunch of flowers in her fist, offering it to him. He took them gingerly from her and stared at them, then looked back at Mi Na. "*I love you, Ran-Jong," she said, and then hugged him so hard he nearly fell backwards. "Don't be sad anymore, please?" Gently, he laid the posies on his bureau, and then held his sister tightly, tears streaming down his face. "*I love you, too, Mi Na," he croaked, "I love you, too . . . and thank you." Mi Na didn't realize that her simple gesture helped her brother's heart finally begin to heal, and may have saved his life. The two siblings were unaware that their mother had entered the room. Quietly, she took in the image, framing it forever in her memory. Then she tip-toed to the bed and, sobbing, held her two offspring in her arms. [A HUGE thank-you to StogieMon for his continued assistance in polishing up the ongoing trials and tribulations of Randy Cho! You rule, man! To get Rachel's perspective, read "Rolling Shadows of Night". To be continued . . . ]