7 comments/ 67901 views/ 22 favorites A Striking Resemblance By: onyxessence My little brother Jacob and I have always been close. Despite the fact that a gap of six years separates our ages, and we don't even have the same mother, we more or less grew up together and always got along splendidly. After my parents' divorce, my father married Jacob's mom, whom he'd been having an affair with, which is what broke the marriage up in the first place. She was already pregnant with Jacob when they got married, and I was so excited about being a big sister that the circumstances of his birth never poisoned me against him, or his mother. Besides, my mother was such a depressed, self-pitying woman that even at the tender age of six, I could readily understand why Daddy would want someone "more fun" for a wife instead. I spent weekends and summers with his new family, and they always made me feel quite welcome. Growing up, Jacob really looked up to me. When he was two I would dress him up girls clothes and put make-up on him like he was a giant live doll. When he was six or seven and I was old enough to baby-sit him, we'd go on adventures all around the neighborhood and play games of my own invention. When I learned to drive, I was happy to take him places with me in the car that was a gift from Daddy, and after I left for college I was happy to have him stay in my apartment for weekends, experiencing the loose life I'd become accustomed to. It was with me that he smoked his first blunt, and I introduced him to the girl he lost his virginity to. At age 14 or 15, it was the highlight of his life to be able to brag about his college adventures to all his high school friends. After he went to college, we didn't talk quite as frequently. He was all the way on the other side of the country from where the rest of the family lived, so he only came home for Christmas, and I usually spent that with my mother. She was still alone, and still really bitter about the divorce even after all the years that had passed, so Jacob was never welcome at her place. And even though she depressed the hell out of me, I loved her and didn't want her to be alone on major holidays. After I finished college I got a great job, and my own place in a city just a few hours from where we grew up, so for Christmas I usually treated Mom to a vacation, like a cruise or something. Jacob and I exchanged emails at least once a month and occasionally had long phone conversations, but I hadn't actually seen him in person since he left for college, and we hadn't really gotten a chance to talk in a long time either. That all changed when Mom surprised me one year. She announced out of the blue that she was spending Thanksgiving with a friend of hers that she met online. I was shocked that my mother had been "seeing" someone she met online, apparently for well over a year! She admitted to me that she was embarrassed about an internet love connection, but she had just gotten so lonely that she started using online dating sites without telling anyone. She had met this guy in person a bunch of times and was now planning to spend Thanksgiving with him and meet his kids. She promised me that she'd arrange an introduction with the two of us soon afterward, but in the meantime I was on my own for Thanksgiving. She sounded as happy and giddy as a schoolgirl. Imagine someone actually falling for my miserable old mother! I couldn't get over it. So I called Daddy, and of course he and his wife were happy to have me over, even at the last minute. "Jacob will be here too. He hasn't been home for Thanksgiving since he started school, but he says he wants us to meet his girlfriend. It must be serious; he's never brought a girl home before. So it's nice that she'll meet the whole family at once." I was very, very curious to meet the girl who had won Jacob's heart. His emails seemed to indicate that he was having far too much fun sleeping around in college to get serious about anyone. But of course he was older now. Already a senior, getting ready to turn 22 soon. Maybe his wild days were behind him. And more than anything I was excited to see him again, finally. Had it really been three whole years? Amazing how time flew. I couldn't believe I had let so much time go by without seeing my beloved baby brother. I felt guilty for being so busy with my job and my life that I hadn't even flown out to visit him once. I dressed up a little for Thanksgiving dinner because Daddy and his wife have always been a little more formal than me and mom. My magenta slip dress was tasteful but definitely showed off my assets a little too. I was proud of my full breasts, firmly nestled in their C-cup bra, my firm ass and my long legs, so I scarcely owned any clothes that hid them. I was planning to stay the night in my old room, which still held some of my childhood things, so I had a duffel bag with me as well. I wanted to be able to spend plenty of time with my family and not have to worry about getting home that same night. I had the long weekend off, so I didn't have to worry about missing work. When I arrived, Jacob wasn't in yet. Daddy had gone to pick him and his girlfriend up at the airport. So I hugged Laine, Jacob's mom, and gave her the bottle of wine I'd brought over. I sat talking to her and her parents for about fifteen minutes while we waited for the rest of the group. Jacob's grandparents are incredibly nice people, and have always treated me sort of like a grand daughter too, when they see me. His grandpa is always pinching my cheeks and asking me when I'm going to let some man "snap me up." When we heard keys in the front door lock, we all got up to greet Daddy, Jacob and the mystery girl. Everyone was poised and ready to smile and welcome her to our home, but we were in for a bit of a surprise. The door flew open and Daddy said, "Hi everyone!" in a tone of voice that sounded like he was struggling to be cheerful. Jacob was right behind him. "Sis!" he called happily, and I was so happy to finally see him that I had eyes for no one but him. I flew into his arms and we hugged each other like crazy. He picked me up and spun me around, making me laugh. He was so much taller than I remembered, easily half a foot higher than my petite 5'6". His golden-brown hair had grown out longer, and was brushed back in full waves that touched the collar of his preppy polo shirt. His blue eyes were alight with happiness just as they always were when I saw him, ever since he was a baby. "You look great," he said sincerely as he kissed me full on the lips. He had never done that before, and it both surprised and rather pleased me. "I was so happy when Dad told me you'd be here. It's really great to see you." We were so wrapped up in greeting each other that we barely noticed how quiet the rest of the room was. When we finally broke apart, I remembered that there was a third person who had just entered the room, and eagerly looked around to finally see Jacob's girlfriend. I think my jaw dropped. It must have. Everyone was staring from her to me, and his grandparents were whispering to themselves even as his mother tried to make small talk with her and his father busied himself putting luggage away. "This is Abigail," Jacob said to the room in general. "Abigail, meet my sister, Anastasia." Then he went to hug his mom and grandparents, leaving me to stare openly at a girl who could have been my clone. We both had the same strawberry-blonde hair and wide blue eyes with dark lashes. We were obviously around the same height, although she was wearing flat sneakers and I was wearing heels. Her bust, build and figure were basically the same, but it was in the face that we could have passed for each other. Her mouth and mine were both wide and full-lipped, our noses were both slightly upturned at the tip. We both had a similar dusting of pale freckles across our noses and cheeks, though I was wearing make-up, so mine might not have been visible. Jesus, this girl looked like my TWIN! Abigail also seemed taken aback and uncomfortable. She kept darting glances at Jacob, as if wondering why he never bothered to tell her that she was the spitting image of his older sister. I tried to cover the awkward moment by finally getting my jaw up off the floor and speaking to her. "Hi!" I said, forcing myself to sound bright and cheerful, and not as weirded out as I actually was. "Well, it's nice to meet you. Strangely enough, you remind me of someone I might have met before." She forced out a shaky little laugh, and we briefly shook hands as Daddy re-entered the room. "Well, why don't we all have some wine and some appetizers? I think the turkey still needs another hour or so, and then we can start in on dinner." His voice was also bright and almost falsely cheery. He crossed over to walk me into the dining room, planting a kiss on top of my head. "It's good to see you Pumpkin," he said. And then, more quietly, "Jacob doesn't seem to have any idea about the resemblance, as crazy as that seems. I'm no shrink, but it seems like deliberate denial on his part, if anything. So let's not bother him about it, all right? I don't want to freak him out." I just nodded, too stunned to reply. How could Jacob NOT see this? We sat down in the living room and ate appetizers while we tried to have a conversation that both ignored the giant elephant in the room and avoided ganging up on Abigail with questions about herself. Unfortunately, she didn't have much help from Jacob in that department. Even though he was sitting next to her on the love seat, we hadn't seen each other in so long that he directed most of his attentions to me, and I to him. I wanted to hear as much about college as he could decently tell me in front of his parents. Once the food was ready we all sat down to an amazing meal. My mother and I usually spend Thanksgiving at a restaurant somewhere, so I hadn't had a traditional meal in years. Abigail again sat next to Jacob, but he still wasn't paying her a lot of attention. When I spared some notice for her, she appeared to be drinking a lot. She had at least three glasses of wine even before we sat down to dinner, and I saw her drink at least another three during the dinner itself. And after dinner, when Daddy politely offered brandy to everyone to go with our blackberry pie, she tentatively accepted. It was as if she was trying to drink her obvious discomfort away. After we all left the table and Jacob's grandparents went home and his parents shooed us away from helping with the clean-up, Jacob and I decided it would be fun to bust out the old photo albums. He laughed a great deal as we showed Abigail all the crazy pictures of him dressed up like a girl when he was a toddler, and plenty of the two of us playing around as kids. She didn't have much to say. Finally, she excused herself. She said she was jet-lagged and wanted to sleep early. All that alcohol and food probably played a large part in her fatigue, not to mention the shock of meeting me for the first time. I smiled politely and somewhat sympathetically at her. In many ways, it was probably an even stranger evening for her than it had been for me. Sitting across from your mirror image all night is just plain disconcerting, and about the only words she'd said directly to me after our initial greeting was that she liked my dress. So apparently we had the same fashion taste, too. After Abigail went to bed, Daddy and Laine came back in to talk with us for awhile, then finally went to bed themselves, leaving Jacob and I alone in the living room. I barely waited for the sound of their door shutting upstairs before I pounced. "Okay, Jacob — what the HELL? Daddy didn't want me saying anything in front of Abigail, but come on! There's no WAY you don't see that resemblance." To my surprise, Jacob laughed. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist saying something. Come on, let's not talk here," he said, standing up and inclining his head toward the downstairs guest room, where Abigail was staying. "Let's go to the tree house." I rolled my eyes but followed him out the back door. He paused to scoop up the brandy bottle and a couple of glasses on our way through the kitchen, and passed them up to me to hold once I had climbed the ladder to his childhood tree house, which he and Daddy had built together in the biggest tree at the far edge of the backyard, where any noise he and his friends made wouldn't bother the people in the house. He followed me up the ladder and lit the little battery-operated lantern that still worked, though its light was feeble. "God I haven't been up here in ages," he said as he poured us both a generous helping of the brandy. "Don't even think about changing the subject," I warned him as I accepted mine. He chuckled, and his eyes crinkled up at the corners in the way I always remembered. Mine did the same thing; we both got it from Daddy. I wondered suddenly if Abigail's did too. "So why didn't you say anything before now?" Jacob asked after a sip of his drink. "Did Dad tell you not to?" "Right in one," I replied. "He claims you don't know about the resemblance because you're in psychological denial or something — which is bullshit! There's no way you can't have noticed this." Jacob laughed again. He always had such a great laugh, and now it was really deepening with his departure from adolescence into real manhood. "Of course I knew it. Dad's the one in denial. I told him while Abigail was in the bathroom at the airport that I think she's absolutely gorgeous — just like you." "Okay but Jacob, you said the two of you have been dating for six months now. I assume you're sleeping with her. So isn't it weird to be intimate with a girl who looks exactly identical to your sister?" "No," Jacob said softly. "Here, let me show you something." He stood up slightly and pulled his iPhone out of his back pocket, careful not to hit his head on the low ceiling of the tree house. He turned it on and its bright light filled the space while he accessed the application he wanted. He sat down again right beside me so that I could see the screen too. It was on a photo album, and he used his thumb to scroll through the photos as he showed them to me. "This is Lisa. We dated freshman year. I met her at orientation." Lisa had dark red hair and green eyes, but something about her facial expression resembled mine and the noses were similar. "She has your smile, see?" Jacob said, pointing to her full-lipped mouth. Then he went to the next photo. "I left her for Jade," he said, indicating a picture of a laughing girl with light red hair and blue eyes framed by dark lashes. "You can't tell in this picture, but she sounds almost exactly like you when she talks. She didn't go to my school; I met her at some party. But I loved talking to her on the phone." He clicked over to the next photo. "This is Heather. Sophomore year. She had curly blonde hair when I met her, but I convinced her to dye her hair, straighten it, and trade in her glasses for contacts. We were together for like five months, but her personality could never come close to the looks. So I had to let her go." Whatever Heather looked like before Jacob's makeover was unclear because in the picture on his phone, she looked almost as much like me as Abigail did, but her expression was harder, her nose a little wider and her lips much thinner. "After Heather, I was with a bunch of random chicks. People on campus started calling me the Ginger-Snap because I mostly went for redheads. But apart from hair color, it was tough to find anyone else who really fit the bill. Something major was always off, you know? I met a couple of chicks who were a lot like you personality-wise but they didn't look like you at all. And you can't exactly tell a college girl to go get a nose job and liposuction and some Botox injections, you know? Last year I almost gave it up. The closest I could come was this Black girl, Regina. She was so much like you in personality that it was uncanny, and her ass was equally awesome. But I figured I'd never find someone who fit both looks AND personality. And then this summer, in walks a transfer student to my history class and I finally thought, here she is. She's a little quieter than you, and not as funny. I mean, she'll never be you. I know that. No one can ever be you. But she's damn close. When I met her, she was wearing her hair short but I convinced her to grow it out. Now we just have to work on the wardrobe. Soon she'll be perfect . . . just like you." This entire time, I hadn't been able to come up with anything to say. I mean, what was I SUPPOSED to say?? It was flattering, very flattering. But Jacob was no virgin as I well knew. In fact, I realized with a sudden gulp, the freshman I hooked him up with when he was 15 had been a tiny little thing with fine red hair and blue eyes. Complete coincidence, right? Wrong, I thought as the details came back to me. Jacob had seen her in the dining hall and suddenly became very interested in her. So of course my friends and I made friends with her — she'd been delighted to have senior friends. And not at all displeased about being paired up with my awkward but adorable teenaged brother later on. Then again, she'd been pretty high at the time herself, so who knew. The point is, Jacob had apparently been deliberately seeking out and dating or at least fucking girls who looked as much like me as possible. Wasn't that weird? Shouldn't I be freaking out? Why wasn't I freaking out? Why was I kind of . . . turned on?? I covered the long silence by taking a giant gulp of my brandy, and it burned its way down my throat, making me cough. Jacob pounded me on the back, smiling in a crooked, knowing way at me as the light on his phone went out. "Are you all right 'Stasia?" "Uh . . . yeah. Thanks, I guess. I don't really know what to say, Jacob. I mean . . . why would you want to sleep with girls who look like your sister? Isn't it . . . well, isn't it weird?" I had already asked him that question, and he had already answered it. I felt foolish, but I was no fool. I already knew what he was going to say, didn't I? I had to know. I had to. I knew Jacob better than anyone, had known him since he was born. I stared into his blue eyes, so like my own, so like Abigail's. I looked at him in the dim lantern light, slightly breathless. Suddenly it was like I didn't know him at all. It was as if some handsome stranger had taken the place of the baby brother I had always loved to distraction. Surely only a stranger would be looking at me the way Jacob was looking at me now. Only a stranger's hands would have set down his phone and his empty glass, then gently taken mine away too. Only a stranger's face would be slowly coming towards my own, and only a stranger's lips would be kissing my mouth with such gentle but firm, erotic insistence. I responded to the kiss because I knew the kiss was his answer. It would have been rude not to respond after he was polite enough to answer my question, right? I couldn't help but laugh softly at my own ludicrous justifications. "See?" Jacob murmured. "This is why I love you. Even now you find something you can laugh about. You have the best laugh in the world, you know that? No other girl's laugh has ever come close to it." He kissed me again, this time with such force that he pressed my entire body up against the rough tree house wall. I felt myself loosening inside, spinning the way I do when my passions are ignited. Voices rang in the back of my head. What was I doing? Jacob was my brother! This was insane! With great effort, I forced myself to break away from his amazing kiss and actually stood up. Unlike him, I was short enough to stand at my full height. "Jacob, this is wrong, you know it's wrong. I won't deny that I let myself get carried away there, for a minute but . . . but we can't do this. I mean come on, I've helped change your diapers." A Striking Resemblance >> Inspired once more by the art of DeTomasso ... This time, bouncing off from the fact he and others have done some many different versions of the character. 1. It was never established as an official thing, and it hadn't ended on very good terms, but for a few months Margie Bannon had been a sort of apprentice of Lara Croft, assisting her on a couple of expeditions. And during that period she had got very good at mimicking Lara's style. At first it was just a silly joke between them. A couple different people had commented that they looked like sisters, and also Lara remarked on a few occasions that she found it disturbing when other women idolized her too much. That had been intended as a gentle criticism/warning to her overeager student. Margie's playful response was to present herself the very next day as the complete obsessive copycat that Lara feared she'd turn into—emulating not just Lara's clothing and her signature single braid (she had to dye her hair to get it dark enough), but her whole manner, including her accent (though Margie was always rather weak at that part of it). Thankfully, Lara took the entire daft performance in the right spirit. And then later on, they twice put the act to real use, with Margie serving as a decoy. First it was to lead paparazzi astray and allow Lara to take care of a "delicate personal matter elsewhere" (Margie never learned further details) ... The second time was much more dangerous and much more thrilling—she was bait to draw out an enemy, enabling Lara to nail the bastard first. Currently, though, Margie hadn't seen or spoken Lara in over two years—hell, almost three by now. It was completely her fault things had gone wrong. Margie had developed a thing for a friend of Lara's, an older man she bought rare books from. He looked a lot like Jeremy Irons. When the man turned Margie down, she hadn't handled it well. She threw a bit of tantrum and accused Lara of interfering. Lara simply told her she was being childish, and Margie could recognize now that was true—in fact in her gut she'd known it at the time—but she could never bring herself to admit it out loud and apologize. She just took off on her own and that was the end of their connection. Damn shame. She'd learned a hell of a lot from Lara, but if she hadn't screwed everything up, she knew she would have learned far more. Three times since then, Margie had done her Lara act. First it was at a little Halloween party with some close friends in grad school. The second time (and on a dare from that group, after she'd impressed them so much) she did it at a very big party, a high society event—passing herself off as the real Lara, just to see if she could get away with it. And she had. Margie still wondered if Lara herself had ever found out about it. She might have, for the thing had got a ton of press, thanks to the embarrassing antics of some other celebrities in attendance. And also the dress she'd chosen to appear in. It had been rather attention-grabbing. So Margie-as-Lara in that flashy number ended up featured on television and in several magazines, and of course on the internet. But Lara hadn't contacted her afterward or made an issue of it. Either she hadn't noticed, hadn't cared, or just possibly she'd been amused by the stunt. Margie hoped the last one was the case. She told herself she wouldn't press her luck, after that. She'd never try that shit again. Only then a situation arose that forced her to. Well, pretty much. Kind of. The impersonation had opened some doors that wouldn't have opened otherwise. 2. When she started out on this trip, dressing up like Lara wasn't meant to fool anybody again, but as a kind of preparatory spiritual thing—psyching herself up for the adventure, to get in the right mindset. Like war-paint or totemic masks. She felt bolder in that outfit, and tougher, with her hair dyed and braided. Ready for anything. The world's at your feet, when you're wearing asskicker boots. And when you're sneering down your nose through sassy tinted specs. She loved the gloves, too. They were meant to make your hands stronger and they totally worked. Margie was borrowing her famous mentor's strength and courage—and the sexiness, too, 'cause hey, it felt great. The shirt that said "Yeah fucker, go on and look how great my tits are, and my abs too." The shorts that said the same thing about her legs and her bottom. But then she couldn't get where she needed to go. She still had some big gaps in her information. There were a few key people she needed to talk to, in order to fill in those blanks, and none of the fuckers would take her calls, let alone meet with her in person. Not until as a last resort she tried using Lara Croft's name instead of her own ... as well as her accent, or at least Margie's weak and wobbly version of it. But bad as it was, all the men bought into the act. Because she looked the part, and because they wanted to. They wanted to believe the real Lara Croft was talking to them, and needed their help. She didn't end up giving any them any of the money she'd brought—they wouldn't take it, trying their damnedest to impress her with their chivalry. Well, if it had made them feel good about themselves, fine and dandy. Margie never liked her real name anyway. It was an old lady's name, or a fat girl's name. Sounded too much like margarine. Mean kids used to call her that in school. And because of her last name, it got extended to Margarine Yogurt. She could never eat either of those things without getting sick. She was looking for a secret room, underneath a ruined windmill. She knew which country it was in, although over the last few months they kept changing the name of the rundown rinkydink shithole because of "regime-changes". She also knew the place was between a river which she didn't know the name of, a castle with three different names, God knows why, and a factory that used to make tanks in WWII, and that never had a name at all. The castle and the factory and the windmill itself had all got the shit bombed out of them during that war, but then all of them or some of them may or may not have been rebuilt afterward. Ha fucking ha. So she'd needed help from local experts. Not to say she couldn't have figured out the right spot by herself, if she put her nose to the proverbial grindstone, but the local guys sure sped up the process. She couldn't afford to sink too much time into this. Margie wasn't wealthy—not yet. Not unless this quest paid off like she hoped it would. Until then, she had all the usual monthly bills looming over her, and she could only take a couple weeks off work—unpaid—without losing her bullshit university job. She needed to get this thing done quick and dirty. In and fucking out, no futzing around. What had happened was she found an old diary in a library archive nobody had got around to sifting through, until Margie came along. It was in code, but not a tough one to work out. The writer had worked for a crime boss with Nazi connections. He made himself a secret room under a ruined windmill where he stashed a bunch of paintings they'd stolen that he stole off them. Big name stuff. Lost Da Vinci's and Van Gogh's. Then the Nazis found out about this and paid the guy that wrote the diary to kill his boss, which he had, cheerfully. The war ended and the guy went to America for a fresh start. He wrote his diary in the late fifties, confessing with some relish all the dreadful shit he'd done in his life. His only regret was that he'd never made it back to the old country to clean out that secret room. So all those paintings were still stashed there ... waiting for Margie to recover them, in 2013. But then using Lara Croft's name must have drawn attention from some of her enemies. Shady characters followed Margie to the windmill and she was too dumb to notice until they attacked her, the moment she pried open the trapdoor to the secret room. Well, considering it was her first experience with that sort of thing, Margie actually hadn't done too bad, once the shooting started. The real Lara wouldn't have handled herself better. Margie always thought she'd just freeze up useless in that sort of situation, like a deer in headlights, but that hadn't happened. She'd got too ticked off to get scared. Pulled her guns out and blown away eight guys, bim-bam-boom. How about that. Unfortunately one of the eight sons of bitches managed a call on his cell phone before he bled out, summoning reinforcements. And that call had brought twice the original number, if she'd counted them correctly. Pursuing her through the woods ... 3. She had bought herself a little breathing space by blowing up a bridge—the secret room had contained some crates of dynamite, in addition to the paintings. And she'd put the shit to good use. Fifteen minutes prior to blowing up the bridge across the river, she had blown up the restored windmill (which was, or had been, a real towering monster, mostly stone, like you'd see in an old Frankenstein movie) in order to bury the secret room's trapdoor under all the debris. So the bad guys wouldn't be able to get in there and filch everything before she came back. Which she would make sure she didn't do by herself next time, now that she knew all the priceless art was really and truly still there. Probably coming alone in the first place hadn't been the smartest way to go about things, but she would have been embarrassed as fuck if the secret room turned out empty, or if her local helpers had bungled their part of it and steered her to the wrong windmill. Except destroying the bridge had cut her off from the closest towns. On this side of the river there was nothing but woods and dinky farms, nine out of ten of which were abandoned, until you hit the mountains along the northern border. At least a two day journey on foot, and she had no food or water on her. For a while, Margie had just dithered around along the shore, not sure what to do. She had her cell phone but she had turned it off because she was afraid the bad guys were tracking it. Then Fortune seemed to decide she had earned a smile. She went over a hill, and saw a little lake in front of her with a seaplane parked on it. She hadn't known there was a lake anywhere near here—it wasn't included on her map. Or perhaps she was looking at the wrong part. Easy enough to do, since the thing wasn't labeled in English. Was the lake connected to the river? It didn't seem to be but she couldn't tell for sure. Maybe they joined up further ahead, around a bend. The plane was docked to a lopsided cabin or workshop or some damn thing on the gravelly lakeshore. She saw a man rolling a dolly along the narrow pier connecting them, loading shit into the plane or maybe unloading it. Didn't matter. She hustled down there fast as she could to talk to him. "Hey! Hey! I need help!" The guy turned out to look a whole lot like Sting, when she got close to him. Young Sting from the eighties, when he was hot. (Well, to be fair he was still pretty hot nowadays, but in an old guy way.) Margie told him she had bad men chasing her, and she needed him to fly her to safety—preferably over the border. He said she looked like Lara Croft and she told him that was because she was Lara Croft. And then he told he'd be glad to help her if she had sex with him first. She took it like a joke and offered him a lot of money—much more than she had on her or could actually afford. Except she would be able to in the near future, once she got hold of those paintings. So she wasn't completely bullshitting the guy. She would have made good with him pretty soon, if he'd agreed. But he didn't want the money. He wanted sex with Lara Croft. "No money in the world can top that." "Well, fuck," she said. "Uh huh," he said. "We don't really have time for that sort of thing. It isn't safe." "That makes it more exciting!" Plus he said they had at least two hours—because the next closest bridge over the river was a two hour drive away. "There used to be more, but they got wrecked during the last troubles. This part of the country got the worst of it, you know. That's why there's hardly anybody left around here. I enjoy the solitude, mostly. But I was feeling rather low this morning and I'm glad you've dropped in like this. Lara Croft, of all people! My sister always says I'll go crazy living this way by myself for so long, and maybe she was right. Maybe it's happened, at last. This is too good to be true, isn't it? My uncle lost his mind, you know, at the age of forty three—he used to think the devil visited him, every evening at six o'clock. I'm glad I'm seeing you instead of the devil. Or are you the devil in disguise? Well, even if you are, I'm going to have sex with you anyway, if you'll let me. Perhaps you'll turn back into the devil as soon as things get going, to torment me—but I won't let that stop me. I shall take the risk. I haven't got to have sex with anyone in a long time. My girl was killed, in the troubles. I have never got over it. She was very pretty. You are much prettier, though. She would not mind me saying so. She was always saying people are not honest enough, about such things. I miss her every day more and more. But I know she would be angry for me, for not moving on. She always said that wasn't healthy, when people didn't move on from things after they ended." He was quite a character, this fucking guy, wasn't he? Jesus. How was she supposed to respond to this shit? 4. The real Lara Croft wouldn't have put up with this. She would have shot the guy, or knocked him out. And flown off in the asshole's plane by herself without a qualm. Actually, could she do that? Did Lara know how to pilot a plane? Margie didn't know. Well, if she didn't, she just would have made the guy do it. Stuck her gun in his face, or just slapped the shit out of him. Whatever it took to get him in line. Margie couldn't do any of that stuff, could she? Actually she may as well give it a whirl. So she drew one of her guns and stuck it in his face. She didn't think she could shoot the guy in cold blood but he wouldn't know that. The guy smiled. "Ah, so it's the devil, after all. Oh well." "I'm not the devil. Just do what I need like a gentleman and I won't shoot you, because I won't have to." His response was to grab the gun by the barrel. He didn't try to knock it away or pull it out of her hand, he just gripped it. But he moved so fast she almost pissed herself, and in the same second she squeezed the trigger on reflex. That should have been that. But it wasn't. The damn gun only clicked—it needed reloaded. She thought it still had two shots left in it but she must have miscounted. Shit. She pulled her other gun, but in the second it took her to swing it up, she realized he wanted her to blast him. He hadn't been trying to disarm her, just startle her into blowing him to Hell. And it would have worked if she was less of an idiot. Well, fuck that. She wasn't gonna help this crazy loser commit suicide and have to carry that around on her conscience for the rest of her life. Plus that would leave her stranded here, since she couldn't fly his damn plane. Unacceptable. "Let go of my weapon." He obeyed, looking sheepish now. "Why didn't you do it?" "You got a death wish?" He shrugged. "Yes, a little bit. Off and on." "Jesus. Well, you're no use to me if you're dead." "You can shoot me after the flight. Right after we land." "You want me to kill you afterwards instead of having sex with you before." "No, we will still have sex. But then after the flight, you can kill me if you still want to. I won't mind. Does that make the sex more acceptable for you?" "You are fucking out of your mind." "I know it. I know." She tried to talk him down to a handjob or a blowjob, but he wouldn't go for it. He had to get the real deal. Finally—half out of exasperation, and half in pity for this strange lost soul—she gave in, as long as he agreed to wear a condom. "Of course I will," he said, as if astonished that she thought she had to ask. So they went into his cabin. There was no proper bed in there, just a couch. It was leather or fake leather, and dark red—almost just like the couch she had in her own apartment, except a little longer. And it had sheets and bed pillows on it. He shrugged off the greasy mechanic's boiler suit he was wearing and took a quick shower, while she undressed and arranged herself on the couch. How long had it been since she last had sex? Obviously a good while, since she had to think about it. Two months. Three? She remembered it hadn't been much good, whenever it went down, and neither had the time before that. A run of bad luck. Well, story of her life, for the most part. At least this crazy asshole was decent looking. She had a big crush on Sting for a while, when she was a teenager. That kind of helped, some. Unless she let herself think about it too hard. Because if she did, then it might maybe make this shittier, instead. Like a fantasy figure from her youth had turned evil on her. Climbed out of the poster on her bedroom wall to assault her. God. Another thing that helped her get ready for this was it was happening to Lara Croft, not to her real self. That made it much less humiliating. Margie Bannon wouldn't do this. The guy wouldn't even want to, probably, if he'd met her in her normal clothes, and talking like she normally did. Of course the real Lara Croft wouldn't submit to it either. But that was okay too because the real Lara wasn't here doing this. She was a playing a different Lara Croft, the chief defining difference being that this version would, because she had to. Because she was younger, less sure of herself. And also maybe dirtier. More perverse than both the real Lara and Margie herself ever were in normal regular circumstances. She would think of this like a roleplay performance. None of this was real. It was all pretend, like in a movie. Even in porn movies most of it's all staged. They don't really feel it like they pretend to. They just go through the motions and that's the same thing she would do and it wouldn't matter, soon as it was finished. When he emerged from his bathroom, he had a dinky green towel around his waist. There was no bulge in it—he wasn't hard yet, unless he had a really tiny pecker. His hair was slicked back, but then he messed it up with his fingers. Shook it out so it was back to the same wild goofy spiny mop as before. It looked good that way. Better than when it was flat and neat. That had both diminished him and made him look sinister. He had scars on his chest and belly that she thought might have been bullet wounds. But she wasn't completely sure. She had a cousin who had some moles removed from his back, and they'd left similar craters on his skin. She considered asking if she could take a quick shower herself, before they got started. Climbing into secret rooms under windmills gets you grimy, let alone gunfights, demolitions, and running through overgrown woods. But then she figured she would rather not delay things any longer. Sooner they got going, sooner it would be over. Plus what was the point in getting clean when this guy was gonna get her filthy again? The way he looked at her was weird. It wasn't the look you'd expect from a guy that was about to fuck you. It reminded her of the expression her dad used to get, when he was trying to fix the car or the washing machine or something and he was having some trouble. He wasn't the kind of man that got upset in that situation, like most dads. He didn't cuss and kick things. He would think things over very carefully, but also smiling a little, laughing at himself and the whole mess he'd got into as he puzzled through it. A Striking Resemblance Of course that was an uncomfortable association. Margie thought she would have preferred a more typical look from this guy, even if it had been something nastier. Like a scornful frat boy leer. Or the dazed, dreamy, stoned look that her last boyfriend always got, when they'd do this. She had hated that look but she got used to it. The devil you know ... The guy didn't pounce on her, like she expected. Instead he kneeled down. Maybe it was dumb of her, or maybe it just exemplified the unfortunate aspects of her sexual history, but Margie didn't realize what he meant to do until he put his mouth on her down there. "You wanna do that?" When she asked, she didn't use her Lara accent. But he didn't seem to notice. She might have sounded like she was disgusted, but really she was just astonished. Genuinely astonished. He gave her a slightly miffed look. Like when you ask a kid if he remembered to tie his shoelaces. Then he started to eat her out. Well, that wasn't the right way to put it. That expression gives the act an aggressive and ugly sound, and he didn't go about it in that fashion. He didn't just dive straight in. He was careful, methodical, systematic ... He worked inward from the sides, in slow, gradual spirals. He was very thorough with the ground he covered along the way. Made damn sure all the i's got dotted and the t's got crossed, so to speak. It was really something. It got pretty intense, pretty fast. Of course the real Lara Croft would never have allowed something like this to happen to her. But how would she have handled it, if she did? Was that even a valid question? Or was it like Can God make a stone too big for Him to lift? It seemed like it was one of those. Unanswerable. Margie had no idea what kind of sex life Lara had. They'd never talked about that sort of stuff. It wouldn't have been appropriate. But obviously like everybody else in the world, Margie wondered about it. One might think since she'd actually got to work with the woman and develop a personal relationship with her, this would have given her some insight or at least some suppositions on the subject. A sense of what Lara was into, behind the public image which was both so alluring and so ambiguous. So deliberately enigmatic. But that wasn't the case at all. In fact knowing her, at least to the degree Margie had, only made the question more mysterious. Most of the time, she seemed entirely above all that stuff. Completely aloof and indifferent to her own sex appeal, despite the provocative way she dressed and presented herself. The impression she gave you—not always but most of the time—was that she wasn't doing it to show off, she just didn't care. Like she honestly didn't realize how hot she was. (But was that honest?) And like if she had happened to be morbidly obese, instead, or a flat-chested waif with acne all her over her body, she'd still wear the same outfits. Because showing off her figure wasn't why she chose them. She dressed that way because it was comfortable and functional—good costumes for running around through steamy jungles doing backflips off cliff tops and martial arts shit, when you got attacked by ninjas or mummies or ninja-mummies. Practical lightweight well-ventilated flexibility, was what it all came down to. Supposedly. Was this just a pose, though? It was impossible to say for sure. It could be but it might not be. Real or assumed, that version of Lara appeared to have little or no interest in romance or sex, casual or otherwise. Like she just wasn't wired that way. And possibly this explained her life style. Or was explained by it. All her energies were focused on her archeological adventures—on "tomb raiding," as the media had dubbed it. That was what she got off on, and thus she didn't need or desire anything else. Whether by choice or by chance, a result of genetics or her funny upbringing, it didn't much matter. It was just the way she was, if that was the way she was. A woman like her didn't need any sort of entanglements with boys or with girls. All that stuff was too ordinary for her. Bourgeoise. Plain boring, compared to the life-and-death world-in-peril dramas of paranormal archaeology. Then again, that might be overstating it. Or it might be a complete misinterpretation of her nature. Or even an outright facade she carefully maintained. There were times—not many but a few—when Margie's view on all this swung completely the opposite direction. 'Cause it was equally possible that Lara was really a very strongly sexual individual indeed. Not to a psychotic predatory level, but nonetheless ... intensely, aggressively, voraciously sexual. And she just kept quiet about it, to protect her reputation. Maintaining that cool surface of reserve and detachment, as a matter of decorum and discretion. While underneath, secretly, she was enjoying all the heat and hunger her appearance continuously generated, rather than oblivious to all that or disgusted by it—and she would in fact be feeding off it. In this interpretation, her adventures weren't a substitute or a sublimation of her sexuality, but an extension of it, and an augmentation. An ongoing fundamental part of her game. Margie thought it was one extreme or the other. Usually with most things, the middle ground is the best bet. The most likely possibility. But she didn't feel that was true with Lara. That was as far as her instincts went, if they were worth anything at all. She couldn't sense which one was the right one, but she'd bet big money it was the one or the other ... Either Lara Croft never bothered fucking anybody, 'cause she didn't give two shits about fucking, or she was fucking tons of people all the time, because why the fuck not, when you looked like she did? Use it if you got it. But why not be open about it, if she was? Well, duh. Let's get real. James Bond can be openly and aggressively and shamelessly sexual. Lara Croft can't, not yet. The public might be willing to indulge her on the first two, but not the third. Never the third. The world ain't ready. The world still sucks too much. Sorry, folks, but there it is. She can hardly even kiss somebody without raising a shitstorm, tarnishing the image. The real point was this, though—either way, whichever version, if the REAL Lara was in the position Margie found herself in—not that she would ever let that happen, but if somehow she had—Margie could imagine the look on Lara's face. And the expression would be the same, regardless whether Coldfish Vulcan Lara was the true one, or the Shameless-Succubus-Nympho version. Margie knew neither one would let this fucking Sting-looking guy get under their skin and break them down. They'd just set their teeth and take whatever he dished out without any fuss. They wouldn't complain or struggle. They wouldn't let him get to them, no matter what he did. The guy was licking her cunt. He was eating Margie out ... Properly now. Jesus, his tongue was actually inside her, and he'd amped up the force of his efforts considerably. The real Lara wouldn't let it bother her. She'd just sit back and put up with it, until it was over. Margie imagined she wouldn't make the slightest sound. Not a peep, even. Coldfish Vulcan Lara wouldn't feel a thing down there—she probably wouldn't be able to. Shameless-Succubus-Nympho Lara, on the other hand, would be so used to having this done to her that she just wouldn't let herself feel it, if she didn't want to—and of course she wouldn't, in this situation. She wouldn't wanna give the fucking guy the satisfaction. So she'd just switch herself off. Because with all her experience, she'd be able to do that. She'd have built up a tolerance. Like jocks that can drink twenty beers without feeling tipsy or having to pee. Nothing the guy might do with his tongue would be able to surprise her. But Margie wasn't like that. Margie couldn't switch off. She couldn't take this stoically, like the real Lara would. She just didn't have the capacity for that. Not even close. She'd never had much success with cunnilingus. It was never as good as it was cracked up to be. For lots of girls, it was their favorite. For her mostly it was just kind of tedious and frustrating. All the guys she'd got with, they either didn't like doing that or if they did, they hadn't been any good at it. Well, it was different this time. This felt very different. Very very different. Oh man. She finally encounters a guy that knows how to do this, and it's this fucking guy. This asshole turns out to have a Master's degree. Or at least he deserves one. Like one of those honorary ones colleges give out, even when the movie star or the politician never took a single class at their damn school, just 'cause they think the guy's awesome and they wanna associate their stupid school with his awesomeness. Somebody needed to give this asshole one of those. Like a top science school, like MIT. Because this guy did it like science. Not art. No way—better than art. Way better. Art's great, sure, but it's ambiguous. Science gives you tangible dependable repeatable results. Like this guy's tongue. Jesus. Gee! Ziss! Key! Reist! Margie had to cry out. She had to. She was always a pretty vocal person. When she felt something strong, she had to vocalize it. If she didn't, her head would explode. That was how it felt. It's how people are made. Seriously. It's not healthy suppressing those impulses, bottling up. Like sneezing with your mouth closed. You can give yourself a stroke that way—she read that in a magazine. So she vocalized. She vocalized a great deal, because he made her feel a great deal to vocalize. He made her moan, and then he made her swear, and then he made her holler. He made her have an orgasm and then he made her have another one almost immediately. Even then he didn't quit until he brought her off one more time, a few minutes later. "Holy Crap! Holy God! Haahhrrggh!" "Now we can get started," he announced, standing up. His towel had slipped off him some time ago, and he left it on the floor behind him when he got up. So now she could see his cock. Turned out it wasn't tiny after all—he just hadn't been erect before. But now he was. It wasn't gigantic but it wasn't dinky. It would do the job. He had a condom packet in his hand—he must have been holding the thing the entire time since he came out of the bathroom. She just hadn't noticed it before. She watched him open it and put the thing on. It was purple. And it had ridges on it. Gosh. One of those. She wondered if she'd feel the difference. She'd never done this with one of the specialty ones like that. "Now I've got you good and ready. Now we can get cooking." Shit, in her mind, they should be done already. She wasn't used to multiples. No sir. Most times, like most women, she was lucky to get one orgasm, when she fucked a guy. Let alone three. And he thought they were only just starting? Sure, whatever. Okay. The rest would be a chore. He'd taken things too far already—she appreciated the dedication he'd put into preparing her, but it had ended up too elaborate and sustained. Turned into closing ceremonies instead the warm up act they were intended to be. Her pussy had had enough partying for one day, thanks ... She was thoroughly lubricated for him, and it was true she hadn't been before, but also she would probably be over-sensitized, inside. Too much of a good thing does that to you. At least it should only take him another minute or so to get himself done. She could put up with a minute or two for this guy, even if she was sensitive inside. He had earned her cooperation. She'd grit her teeth and bull through it, even if it got rough. He had her roll over for him. She rose up on her hands and knees but he pressed her flat. What did they call this, flat-iron? Yeah. She'd left her socks on, when she undressed—the floor in here looked pretty grimy—but he plucked them off, and then he held on to her bare feet while he fucked her. Holding them bent upward beside his hips, pressing his thumbs into their arches. There seemed to be some kind of magic button in her feet, in that spot—a pressure point she'd never known about before. Because it felt really good to have him pushing there like that, curling her toes ... Weird. But cool. And having her legs stretched backward at the knee, far as they could bend ... Gosh. Holding that tension felt good in her muscles, and not just in her legs—the stretch also enhanced the sensations in her pussy, and in her belly, and up her spine. Somehow the position seemed to make her open up more and yet also tighten more, in her channel—which shouldn't have been possible, doing both those things at once. But that was what it felt like. She had become over-sensitized, just as she expected. When he penetrated her, and when he thrust, every plunge burned inside—but it was a good burn. And that she hadn't expected. It still hurt but she could bear it. Because she found she was liking it, too. It was one of those pleasurable pains. Cocks didn't usually feel this way. She didn't usually feel them very strongly at all ... She felt them inside—the motion, the pressure—but there were never very strong sensations of goodness or badness either way, most of the time. Always the most exciting part of it was just the fact it was happening, not so much how it actually felt in there, which wasn't really such a big deal. This guy's was different. This cock was giving her pussy both those sensations—goodness and badness both together. Burning strong, with each stroke. How much did the ridges on the condom have to do with that? Hard to say. She didn't really think she could feel the ridges, separate from the rest of it. Maybe she could but she wasn't sure. Further cause to vocalize, in any case. "Uhhnn! Uhhrrnn! Ahhrrhhnn! Ahhrrhhnn!" He stopped suddenly. She thought that meant he was coming, but then he didn't seem to be, as the seconds passed. She couldn't feel it if he was. He didn't pull out of her either. Just held still, taking some deep breaths. "Are you finished?" she asked, over her shoulder. He shook his head. "Just taking a moment." "Were you gonna come? Were you close?" "Not really. I am enjoying myself far too much for that. I'm in no rush to conclude this encounter." "But is that why stopped? Because you could feel yourself about to conclude?" "Not at all. Just catching my breath. If I hadn't stopped, I'll admit I might have fainted in my excitement, or even had a heart attack, but I won't need to climax for quite a good while. This is no schoolboy's cock inside you." Did he mean that? Or was he bullshitting her? He was probably bullshitting her. "I might come again if you can keep going a while. How long you think you can keep going?" "As long as you need. Don't worry yourself about that." She didn't want to get her hopes up and then have him leave her dangling, on the threshold. God knows that had happened to her plenty of times in the past. "If you can't last long enough, just tell me." He only laughed and got going again. It turned out she didn't need much more time at all ... Just another few strong strokes ... "I think I'm—I think I'm gonna come again! I think I'm about to come!" It sounded silly to announce it like that. She'd never done that before. But she was so afraid he'd let her down at the last second. Also it seemed to help it happen. And to make it stronger. "I'm gonna come! I'm coming!" Like a proclamation. Suddenly it was so. Saying it made it so—like she chose it. Like it was as much from her choice as from the stimulation of his cock. "I'm coming again!" And it was different. It was a new kind of climax and it was savage. Savage! She thought she'd wet herself. She was mortified at first, when she felt it start to gush—but then she realized it wasn't pee that was spraying out of her. This felt completely different than peeing. She realized she had just squirted. She had just had a so-called female ejaculation. "Wow," said the guy, laughing again, "My word. Look at this! Wow!" "Holy crap! I've never—Holy fucking crap!" And it happened again. And then it kept happening. Now her body had learned how to do this and how good it felt, it kept right on doing it. It happened again and again and again. Every ten seconds or so—every ten strokes from the guy, she'd feel another surge swell up ... but now it always felt more like something her pussy did to itself, rather than his cock making her do it. The cock helped, of course. The cock or something cockish inside there to work with or work against was probably necessary, to trigger each blastoff. But it was just a tool, no longer a controlling force. She was the rider now, rather than the ridden, even though she was still pressed flat on her belly beneath him in a submissive, receptive posture. Yet she no longer felt like she was being fucked. She felt like she was fucking him. Or at least her pussy was, while the rest of her was just swept along in the experience. Margie still wasn't in charge of this—she still felt exploited and the same sense of giddy helplessness and embarrassment. But now it was her own greedy pussy that was exploiting and embarrassing her. And it was also exploiting and possibly embarrassing Clone Sting and his cock, at least to some extent. If he was aware of it. Another one now. Oh God another one already ... "Yeeehhuuuugghh!" And she couldn't get over the sounds of it, when it sprayed—Zishhhtt!—and then all the little thumpy-spattery impact noises of it raining down on the couch leather and the floor, or on Clone Sting's skin. Like a goddamn garden hose on high pressure. Jesus it was so loud, every time. Did she actually hear it spurting out or did it just seem like she did, when the jet was splashing on something? She couldn't tell for sure but it really seemed like the stream made a noise of its own, just coming out of her and flying through the air, that was separate from the drizzly rattle of the landing noises. But maybe she was just fooling herself. It was incredible and a little frightening. She wondered if something had broken inside of her, like some little tube or valve no longer connected where it was supposed to go ... Where was all this fluid coming from exactly? What was it, if it wasn't pee? Just pussy juice? But could a pussy make that much juice, this quickly? Didn't seem like it would be able to, the little glands or whatever in the walls that lubricated you. She got a crazy horror movie image in her head of her whole body shriveling up like a raisin or a mummy, because her body couldn't hold its moisture any more—she would spray out all she had until it killed her. Funny way to go. "I am going to come now," he declared. And declared was definitely the word for it. He said it very matter-of-fact. It was funny. Well, all right. She was ready for it if he was ready. If he could have kept going she would have been cool with that too, for a while more yet. But she had no reason to complain if he was worn out. He'd given her more orgasms that any other guy ever had. Even if you decided not to count most of them—all the ones after the squirting-frenzy started. He'd still done an amazing job, taking her up to that threshold and then across it. So she had an idea. Something she'd never done before. It seemed a fitting conclusion. "Pull out," she told him. He made that same slightly-miffed face that he'd made at her before. "I have a condom on. Let me come properly." "I'll take you in my mouth," she said, "I wanna take it in my mouth." "Oh?" he said, "Oh!" As she expected, he liked her idea better. Of course he did. Properly be damned. Margie had taken it in the mouth before, but not very often. And she'd never got down on her knees for it, like she did this time. With other guys she'd stay put on her back and they had to scramble up around her into range, if they wanted to do it that way—if they were quick enough, and more often than not, they weren't and couldn't make it. But this time she wasn't just allowing it to happen—this time she had decided she wanted it to be that way. She wanted to take it like that for this guy. Because he'd earned it. He'd fucked her better than any other fucker ever had. She felt obligated to acknowledge that. To show him. To make it as a good a come as it could be. This was how guys liked it best—she'd let him have a hardcore money shot. A Striking Resemblance So she got down on her knees, ripped the purple condom off, flung it away, and took him in her mouth. Just the head of it. She sucked it hard as she could and tickled the tip with her tongue, while she cranked the shaft with her left hand and squeezed his nuts with her right—you had to be careful about that. You couldn't do it too hard, but you didn't want to be too gentle, either. If you did it right, the payoff was dramatic. It would boost it for him, big time. "Lara! Oh Lara! Auughh!" Margie. My name is Margie. But he wouldn't wanna know that. Still, she would have liked to hear him yelling her real name like that. That would have been better. She suddenly remembered something that happened to her back in high school, senior year—something she hadn't thought about in ages. She'd snuck out to a late movie with a bunch of friends, but afterwards there was a mix-up and she got left behind by herself at the theatre. If she'd had to wake her parents up to come get her, she would have been grounded for months. Might have missed prom—she'd been in trouble a lot that year and they were pretty fed up with her. But a young cop patrolling the big parking lot had spotted her on the sidewalk outside the place looking distressed, and he gave her a lift home so she wouldn't get busted ... She had got the idea in her head he was gonna ask her for a blowjob, before he let her out of the car. Like from something she'd read or saw on TV. He hadn't tried anything like that at all—the guy was perfectly polite, the whole ride. But the thing was, if he'd asked her for that, she would have done it. She'd wanted to do it. She'd wanted him to ask. Clone Sting didn't come, though. He had said he was ready and it seemed like it was time. But he didn't spurt yet. She kept sucking and tongue-flicking, and the cranking and the squeezing with her hands, and he kept yelling "Lara!" and other incoherent exclamations—"Huuhrr! Yuuhhaarrgghh!" Any second now ... Any second ... But God, he didn't ejaculate. This was taking too long. She'd thrown him off, changing things up like this at the last moment. Maybe it was too good now. Too intense. That happened sometimes. System overload. A paper jam in the printer. She hated when guys got stuck like this. Right on the brink. You just had to wait for it. You kept thinking Now! Now! Now? But no. The answer was no. Jesus. She couldn't maintain the momentum. She needed a breather or her head would explode. So she stopped everything she was doing and pulled back from him to take a few breaths, and of course right then the moment he was out of her mouth was when it burst. The first shot went right up her nose. Perfect. She felt a lot pour down over her breasts, but most of that was her own drool spilling from her mouth when she released him, not his semen. He fired upward across her forehead and into her hair. Somehow none of it ended up in her eyes, which was nice. She felt one thick strand loop over her left ear, which then descended slowly toward her shoulder a few inches, a trembling teardrop globule on the end of a thin stretching string, like a plastic novelty earring in the shape of sperm cell, until she flicked it away with her fingers. Well then. She looked up at him, looking down at her. He certainly looked pleased at the mess he'd made. So she was pleased that he was pleased. She felt shy now, and yucky—but it had felt good while it was happening, like it was supposed to. She had accomplished what she wanted, when she chose to have it finish this way. If this was a movie, they would fade-out now that the action was done. Jump ahead to the next scene, if there was more story to tell. It would be nice if real life was like that. Most people get sleepy after sex, but Margie never did. Never. She was always left feeling jumpy, and queasy in her stomach. Didn't seem to make a difference if she had an orgasm or not. Her strongest immediate urge was always to wash and then cover herself up. She never wanted to cuddle with anybody, not even if she really liked the guy she was with. She wanted to get away by herself and not think at all about what she just experienced. Didn't matter if it was really good or really bad. Either way, she'd obsess about it if she let herself, over-analyzing everything. So she had learned to never let that happen. Usually she'd watch TV or play loud music for an hour or so, to give herself something to focus on and keep her brain occupied. She couldn't do that in this place. She could wash, though, which she did, in his shower. Just giving herself a quick thirty second blast, to rinse the jizz off her. Drying off was a problem 'cause he only had that one dinky green towel and it was still soggy from when he used it before. She did the best she could with it, but she was still dripping all over the place as she got dressed. Clone Sting put on the same crumpled boiler suit he had on originally. Then they hustled out to his plane and got going. It wasn't a long flight. They never said a word to each other the whole way. He whistled a little. She sort of half-recognized the tune, but she didn't know the name of it or what the words were. Usually something like that would drive her crazy, but for some reason that time it didn't bother her. Because she was still damp, it got really cold after they got airborne, and she shivered a lot in her seat, hugging her legs to herself, teeth chattering. But that was helpful. Not enjoyable but good because it gave her what she needed, since she didn't have a TV to watch or music to listen to (besides his whistling, which wouldn't have been enough by itself). She focused on the cold and how awful it was, and didn't think about anything else but those sensations, the entire trip. He landed them in a field on the far side of the mountains. She was surprised he could do that—she thought a seaplane could only land on water. But it had regular landing gear too. Shows how knowledgeable she was about aviation. There was a road next to the field, leading to a town or a village a short walk ahead. "Shithole," he said, pointing. Or that was what it sounded like he said. With his accent it was more like "shizool." Perhaps he wasn't insulting the place; perhaps that really was its name, which just happened to sound like "shithole" in English. She got out and started off ... "Aren't you going to shoot me?" he called after her. Without stopping or looking around, she reached over her shoulder and pretended to shoot him with her pointer finger. "Bang bang," she said. He didn't laugh. "Farewell, Lara Croft. Thank you and farewell." 5. Now it was three hours later. Margie was in a shitty little hotel room, and she'd just got off the phone with the real Lara Croft. Hadn't told her the entire story, obviously, but most of it. The important stuff. The find, the baddies. Lara had said she would leave right away to come help her out. She would arrive tomorrow afternoon. It was a relief to hear, but of course Margie still felt a little disappointed in herself for making that call. For not seeing the whole mess through alone. But she had felt stumped. The more she thought things over, the more stumped Margie got. How could she get back to the art stash safely, before the bad guys dug down into it? There was no way, not alone. Too many angles to cover at once. Margie didn't have the resources. The real Lara did. She had said she already knew who the bad guys were—or at least she knew the most likely candidates, in that part of the world. The only other option Margie thought of would have been to go to the government, such as they had, or the surviving remnants of the police force in that country. Bandits, both groups. Very likely connected to the people that tried to kill her. Even if they weren't, they'd screw Margie out of the credit for her find, and most of the payoff, if not all of it. Hell with that. So finally she had turned to her former teacher. Lara would swoop in to the rescue. Would she steal all the glory, in the process? She might, intentionally or not. The press would trumpet Lara's name over Margie's. Perhaps it was what she deserved, after appropriating Lara's identity. If you dress up like Superman and save a bunch of kids from a burning orphanage, you can't really complain if Superman gets the credit. Or can you? Superman wasn't a real person but Lara Croft was, at least in Margie's universe. Margie hadn't told Lara about using her name to get the local historians to help her, and dressing up like her. She didn't have any other clothes to change into. That was gonna raise Lara's eyebrows when they met tomorrow. Unless Margie went to a store before she arrived. Could she afford that? Was it worth the trouble? She wondered what Clone Sting was doing, now that he was back home. Yes, that was how she kept thinking of him—as Clone Sting. She wondered if he'd have any trouble from the bad guys looking for her. When they couldn't find her, and they saw his plane, they'd figure out he must have helped her. What would they do? How weird was it she felt worried about him? Because she did. It was worse than weird, it was dumb. Really dumb. The fucking guy was a nut and a rapist and he had raped her. Telling herself it had been something else like a seduction or whatever was stupid and bullshit and a lie. He had forced her to have sex with him and that was rape. Rape is rape is rape. Just because he hadn't put a gun on her or beat her up didn't make it any better or any less criminal or any less wrong. It had been sinful and it had been cruel, as well, even if he hadn't used real violence and hurt her. He was still an evil criminal bastard. Because he had taken advantage of her situation, for his own selfish gratification—she had only agreed to it under duress. That was compulsion. That made it an involuntary act. Which made it rape. Making someone consent to something against their will isn't real consent. Jesus, though ... It was messed up to say this, but she had to face the facts. This probably meant she had deep issues to work out, and also that she was a traitor to feminism—and to herself. Her own dignity. But Jesus. That fucking guy knew how to fuck. That shit had been the best sex she ever had. So she wouldn't call it a rape. She wouldn't think of it that way, since she'd got off on it. Her choice. This was her choice. It had happened to her, dammit. So that made it her thing alone to deal with, however she wanted, however she needed to. She wouldn't think of it as a rape—it hadn't been horrible enough to be a rape, so therefore she would hereby declare it had been something else: A seduction. It was still pretty horrible, but that was what it was—the guy had fucking seduced her. And it had happened to be the best damn stupid sex she ever had. And after making that personal private decision, she made another one. Margie chose to get herself off again. So she took off all her clothes in a furious frenzy, flinging them all over the place around the room, and when she was fully naked she sprawled back on the bed with her legs propped high and fingered herself. She did it savage ... replaying and reliving the entire awful incredible experience step by step in her memory ... Would she make herself gush at the end, like Clone Sting had, and drench the mattress like she had his couch? Well, if she didn't, she'd just do herself again and keep at this shit until she eventually managed it, however long it fucking took. Hell yeah.