22 comments/ 46855 views/ 36 favorites Touch Therapy Ch. 00 By: nowiser Author's Note: This is a sizeable chunk of text that, while I consider it erotic, could be categorized as "all foreplay, no fucking." If you're looking for a quick fix, you might want to look for chapter 1 of Touch Therapy, and then come back to this introduction if the story interests you. * Greg stood silently at the bus stop, waiting for number 114 to lurch around the corner, deliberately facing away from the bench and doing his best to pretend that Rachel didn't exist—wasn't sitting right behind him. This had to be the worst damn year of his life. Losing Mom had been bad. Real bad. But this. . . he squashed that line of thought and concentrated on his breathing, on the tawny sweep of browned late summer leaves spattered across dusty asphalt, the heat distortions rippling over the roofs of neighborhood cars. At least Elaine wasn't so bad, he thought. And Greg was happy his father had found someone to breathe some life back into him. In fact, Greg liked Elaine too. She was no wicked stepmother, and she made his father laugh, breaking the tension of two long, grim years that Greg had begun to believe were the new outlines of his life. Short and buxom, with wild red hair, startling green eyes and a frequently sunburnt nose, Elaine was a software engineer. Perhaps that was why she insisted on so much free time outside, frequently dragging the whole family on daytrips to the ocean, or into the mountains for kayaking or camping. And they were becoming a family, Greg thought. New, and a little shaky, but real. And it was Elaine that was making it happen, every day, with an unconscious, effortless grace. He'd hated her a little at first, but she had accepted it, and him, with a calm kindness that was irresistible. A naturally 'touchy' person, she would randomly squeeze his shoulder in passing, pat down a cowlick, or, as he was working on his algebra at the kitchen table, she would kiss the top of his head, mumbling "hey there, kiddo" into his hair. Greg knew this was at least partially because she felt a bit sorry for him. Pitied him a little. And should he mind? Didn't he deserve some sympathy? He couldn't think of her as his mother without feeling like he was betraying his real mom, but he was starting to think of her as a favorite aunt. The best aunt ever. With quite possibly the bitchiest daughter ever. Rachel was nothing like her mother. Where her mother was loud, cheerful and sympathetic, Rachel was withdrawn, sullen, angry and judgmental. At nineteen, some of that might be residual teenage growing pains, but Rachel projected a ferocious disdain, exuding contempt for everything and everyone within range. Only her mother and her teachers were exempted from her wrath. So stuck up, Greg thought, that she'd drown in a heavy rain. And wouldn't that be a shame, he thought, smiling to himself. "What?" said Rachel, from behind him. Christ! Was the bitch psychic now? What gave him away? Somehow, she had detected the tension from the morning's incident falling away, and she had immediately challenged him, causing him to tense again. Greg saw the bus rounding the corner. "Finally," he said, turning toward Rachel. "Look, I'll stay here until you're on, but I'm not riding with you today." Rachel glared at him as she jammed her paperback into her bookbag. "That's not what you're supposed to do," she said, tightly. "You're supposed to stay with me until we're all the way to school. You're supposed to stay with me until I've got my books and I'm to my first class. Mom says I'm responsible for you, and I have to look out for you. You can't go by yourself." Greg shook his head in disgust. "That's such bullshit." He took two steps away as the bus rumbled closer. "Technically, we're both adults, and I sure as hell don't need you to hold my hand. There's no way I'm sitting next to you today. Not a chance in hell. I'd rather walk." Rachel paused for a second, considering. "Ok. It's only twelve blocks or so. I'll walk with you." "Screw that. If I run, I could ditch you in seconds. I don't want to be anywhere near you right now, so you can believe you're getting on that bus by yourself." "Think about it, hero," Rachel sneered. "What do you think your dad's going to do if he finds out you ditched me again?" "Fine," Greg reluctantly conceded, as the bus thumped to a stop and the doors hissed open. "I'll get on the bus." Rachel seemed to relax a bit as Greg got on the bus, and found an open seat for them, patiently waiting for her slip in first, so that he could take the aisle seat and she could take the window. He was to sit with her, his father had explained to him, and if he couldn't find an open seat, he was to find one as close as possible, and sit where she could see him. Like a child, Greg thought. Fat chance I'll be able to get my license now. Fat chance I'll see any freedom until I get out of high school and out of the house. It was better when dad and I were on our own. It seemed unbelievable to Greg that his father had so rapidly lost faith in him. For a long time, Robert had been a complete wreck. Greg had shopped, cooked and cleaned. He'd made sure his father's laundry was at least semi-presentable, and tied the recycling bags closed before he put them in the bins, so the neighbors wouldn't see just how many empty bottles of bourbon were in those bags. For almost a year and a half, Greg had been the adult in the house. When Elaine had pulled his father out of his funk, and they'd first moved into her place, Greg had told himself that this could be a good thing. He hadn't minded not having his own room, and sleeping on the futon in the den. Rachel couldn't be expected to give up her room for him. And while the house was small, the back yard was large, with a garden and a swimming pool. It was a fair trade, he'd thought. But the longer they'd stayed, the more rules there'd been for him to follow, the more restrictive those rules became, and the more and more they seemed to revolve around him being 'supervised' by Rachel. And Rachel hated him. Greg knew it. He felt the icy waves of it, as clearly as he could feel a glow of warmth and sympathy from Elaine. For his father's sake he had tried to remain indifferent to it. He had even tried to be friendly, thinking that Rachel might lighten up a bit if he could get her talking. But Rachel had made it clear that his presence was unwanted, and that she was only 'looking after him' because she was a dutiful daughter. She was always reading, and on the rare occasions when Greg managed to elicit genuine conversation, she unfailingly used the opportunity to articulate just how lumpen and stupid she found him. It frustrated and infuriated him, then, that every attempt to disengage, to go his own way, to remove from her the colossal burden of "looking after him," was met with immovable resistance. Every time, she dug in her heels. Sometimes, she seemed downright panicky at the prospect. Always, she threatened to tell. And this morning, she had. Greg's father was generally easy going, which Greg had always counted as a blessing. Robert was not tall, or imposing, but he was thick through the shoulders and forearms, and was frighteningly volatile on the rare occasions when he lost his temper. As he had this morning. At the breakfast table, Rachel had bluntly revealed that Greg had ditched her the night before, abandoning her at the library so he could grab a burger and drop a few quarters at the arcade. She had stared at Greg across the table, her face impassive, as she had ratted him out, as if studying him for a reaction. Greg had been startled, and then enraged. As his father had begun to speak to him in quiet and serious tones, Greg had met Rachel's stony gaze across the table and blurted out, "you're such a bitch!" Shocked silence was broken by a sudden blur of motion. Greg saw anger and profound disappointment in his father's eyes as the man's hand had suddenly shot across the table, his fingers locking around his son's face and jaw. "Apologize," his father had hissed, giving Greg's jaw a terse shake. "Right now. Right fucking now." Elaine had come out of her chair, horrified, and laid her hands gently on their shoulders, pushing the two of them slightly apart. "Robert," she had admonished, "Robert, let him go." She had turned to Greg, both sympathy and a hint of pain in her eyes, saying, "I'm sure he didn't mean it, right, Greg?" "Yes," he had slurred, his lips mashed into his teeth by his father's iron grip, "yeah. I didn't mean it." He hadn't been able to move his head, but his eyes had slid to the right, meeting Rachel's shocked stare, as he gritted out, "I'm very sorry." Rachel, he'd noticed, looked guilty as hell. Ashamed even. And as Greg had felt his father's grip loosen and fall away, he'd seen a significant glance pass between Robert and Elaine. There was something going on there. Some subtext that was escaping him. Robert had turned back to his son, saying "Families take care of each other Greg. Rachel's looking after you because we asked her to, and it's pretty damn ungrateful of you to speak to her like that. We talked about this before. You may legally be an adult, but if you're living in our house, you live under our rules. If you have a problem with those rules, you take it up with me. You understand?" Greg had dropped his eyes, red with impotent anger and frustration. "Yes sir," he'd husked out. "I understand. May I please be excused?" He had bolted from the table without waiting for a response, not wanting his tears of anger and frustration to spill out in front of the rest of them. In the den, tidying the blankets on the couch where he slept, and packing his bags for school, he had heard Rachel go upstairs. In the kitchen, he'd heard his father and Elaine speaking in low tones. Occasional snatches of conversation drifted to him as their voices rose. . . . pretty fragile, but she's OK around him for some reason. She trusts him. . . pretty cruel. . . he's a tough kid, and it's only a matter of time before she. . . a little nicer. . . really unfair to him. . . doesn't understand. . . can't tell him without . . . privacy. . . hope things get better with time. . . she is getting better. . . big part of it. . . Dr. Griggs said . . . takes patience Their voices had dropped off as Rachel had come back downstairs, and Greg had heard the clatter of dishes, and then louder, cheerful, slightly brittle conversation. Rachel had walked past the kitchen to where he sat on the futon in the den, and stood stiffly in the threshold, holding her bookbag in front of her. Greg had stared at her, wishing, not for the first time, that the den had a door. Rachel's black hair was cut short, but had a natural fluff to it that made it look almost downy. Her skin was very pale, and her eyes, very dark, were framed out by dark, arching brows and thick dark lashes. The darkness of her hair, and the paleness of her skin, made the almost purple cast of her full lips all the more striking. She had the delicacy and paleness of her mother, with a darkness that came from her father. She didn't wear makeup. She was slim, straight, small breasted, and wore understated clothing. Greg remembered when they had first met. He had thought she was profoundly beautiful, like some animal glimpsed in the woods through morning fog. Now, Greg bitterly mused, Medusa might have been a more apt comparison. Something must have shown in his expression, because Rachel's face had suddenly flushed with color, and she'd turned to the side, looking away. "I'm ready," she'd said stiffly. "I'll walk you to the bus now." "Sure," Greg had said. "Sure." /break/ Lunch was one of the few times in the day when Greg felt free. He could hang with his friends, as Rachel always spent lunch in the library, studying. Greg would sometimes try to study at lunchtime, but he could never quite manage it, as there was always some distraction. His grades in Algebra were ample demonstration that he was losing the battle. He finished scarfing down a tuna sandwich and an apple, squeezed his friend Jason's juice box so that it spritzed the front of Jason's letterman jacket, and then bolted for the breezeway while Jason wiped at the jacket with a napkin and swore loudly at his receding back. Smiling and humming to himself, he walked into the breezeway, and headed for his locker. As he fiddled with the combination, he heard a muffled cry and a deeper, wheedling voice saying "oh, come on," from around the corner. Greg took a few quick steps to his left, and looked down the next corridor's length of lockers. He saw Rachel. She was standing with her back against a rack of lockers, and Glen Keener was using one hand to push her back against the lockers, while his other hand was pulling her face toward his. "C'mon," he was mumbling, "just a kiss. That's all, then I promise I'll leave you alone." Greg's father had told him never to fight. That it was wrong. That it was to be avoided at all costs. That it didn't make anyone a 'real man.' That it didn't solve anything. Then he had told his son that if he ever absolutely --had- to fight, that he should hit the other guy first -- as hard as he could. Greg didn't have much interest in football, but he wrestled varsity, and ran track. He was moving pretty fast when he hit Keener, and it was a solid hit. Keener went down hard, his head bouncing sharply off the concrete, and when he staggered to his feet, he was clearly unsteady. When his eyes finally focused on Greg, standing over him, with his fists balled up, Keener left. Quickly. "My hero." Dripping with sardonic contempt. Greg almost stumbled under the disdain in Rachel's eyes as she straightened her blouse and skirt, and picked up her bag with trembling hands. Her face was flushed red. "What?" she almost snarled at him. "Is this the point where the grateful bimbo drops to her knees and blows you?" she sneered. "Wow. I mean, wow." Greg thrust his hands into his pockets and took a couple of steps back as Rachel glared at him, and continued to pat at her clothing. "Yeah, I can see how I was totally out of line there. Sorry about that. I hope I didn't hurt your boyfriend." Rachel looked away for a second, her face still flushed, and her breath coming unevenly. Her hands were still shaking, and she gripped the straps of her bag tightly to try to still them. "I could have handled it myself," she said, more quietly. "It's not that I don't appreciate what you did, but don't start thinking I owe you anything." Greg shook his head, suddenly weary of the constant back and forth with this girl. "Look," he said, tiredly, "I don't know what your problem. . . " as Rachel's head suddenly snapped toward him, he amended his sentence. . . "I don't know what your problem with ME is, but whatever I did to piss you off so badly, I'm sorry, o.k.? Really. " Greg gestured down the breezeway, to where Keener had disappeared. "Look, Keener's a total douche. He thinks he can get away with shit because his dad's a cop, but he's also a bit of a chickenshit. He needs to get his ass beat every once in a while. And you really should report this." Greg watched Rachel carefully, as he continued "And I'm sure you could have handled it yourself. I didn't do it for you. He had it coming. You don't owe me anything." It seemed the perfect combination of words. For once, Rachel seemed mollified. Her stony expression softened a bit as she looked at Greg, and she seemed to be making a difficult decision. "Ok." She said, begrudgingly. "Ok. Thanks, then. I guess that's, Ok. But I really don't want to report this. It'll cause more trouble than it's worth." She studied Greg's face, saying "Let's not say anything to mom and Robert about this, ok?" Greg shrugged and smiled, starting to relax a bit, and even feeling a bit of warmth toward Rachel. Maybe she wasn't so bad after all. "Sure," he said, "what are brothers for, right? It'll be our secret." He knew instantly that he'd said something horribly wrong. Rachel's eyes widened, and she drove the heel of her right hand into his chest four or five times, shaking with anger and a kind of horrified indignation while she shouted "you are NOT my brother!" Then she rushed away down the breezeway, her head down, and a hand shading her eyes. Christ, Greg thought, is she crying? He gently prodded his chest where she had pounded him. She wasn't just evil, she was fucking crazy too. That's gonna leave a bruise, he thought, pulling down the neck of his shirt to take a peek inside. That's definitely gonna leave a bruise. \break\ Neither of them said anything to their parents. They went about their daily routines with almost no words passing between them. But Greg felt that something was different. While Rachel wasn't speaking to him, she also wasn't saying horribly cutting things to him at every opportunity. It was as if she was calmer. Like she had vented some tiny ration of poison, and had somehow become more human. Elaine felt it too, and Greg would sometimes catch her looking at the two of them as if she was doing some sort of mental calculation, her engineer's brain cells grinding together as she tried to predict multiple possible outcomes. Robert had acted almost guilty for a few days after the breakfast incident, and Greg had been as conciliatory as possible. He still chafed under the restrictions placed on him, but consoled himself with the thought that, as a senior, he would graduate and head off to college in a year. So they went on in their normal mode. To the bus together in the morning. Rachel to the library at lunch, and again after school, while Greg went to the weight room with Jason, and then home together on the late bus. The only change in their routine was that Greg now paused by his locker at lunchtime, watching down the breezeway until he saw Rachel safely into the library. And once, as they were sitting together on the bus, Greg struggling with his algebra homework, Rachel casually reached over and penciled in an extra line, her tidy script instantly clarifying what he had been missing. He had looked up at her, stunned, and she had looked back, face impassive. "Thanks," he had muttered, trying to figure out what was going on in her head. She had shrugged indifferently, and turned her head away, but he thought he had seen the corner of her lips twitch up in a slight smile. What the hell? He didn't say anything, but for the first time since he had moved into the house, he wondered if things were actually going to be OK. \break\ Friday was the same as always. Elaine came home from work early, and she and Robert got ready to go out and meet their friends. There was no late bus on Friday, and though the ride home was short, it was hot as hell. Greg and Rachel walked back to the house from the bus stop, Greg occasionally pulling his shirt away from his chest with one hand and then letting it snap back, so a puff of air would cool him slightly. Rachel looked sweaty and unhappy in her severe white blouse and grey wool skirt. She walked closer to Greg now than she had in the past, although she was still very quiet. Occasionally the back of her hand would brush against his as they walked. She didn't seem to mind, which Greg thought of as progress, as he could remember such casual contact in the past bringing a cold and immediate request that he 'please not touch.' "Oh man," he said, as they got closer to the house, "I can't believe it's this hot in September. I can't wait to get in the pool." Rachel glanced quickly sideways at him, saying "I was thinking I'd use the pool." She drew out the "I'd", as if implying that the pool was only big enough for one of them, and Greg looked at her like she was crazy before dashing the last thirty feet to the door and throwing it open. Touch Therapy Ch. 00 "Last one in's a rotten egg!" he yelled over his shoulder, and then fled toward the den, ducking around the blanket he had nailed up as a makeshift door, and quickly changing into his trunks. The second he had his shoes off, he was darting through the kitchen and out the sliding glass door, covering the distance to the pool with five or six quick slaps of his feet, and then launching himself up into a perfect cannonball. When he came up, spluttering, he saw Rachel standing inside the house, watching him with a slightly wistful expression on her face. "Come on!" he yelled, "the water's great!" Rachel just shook her head slightly, and then headed upstairs toward her room. Greg dashed water out of his eyes with his fingertips, frowned slightly, then gave up trying to understand, and rolled onto his back. Sunlight dazzled off the water around him as he floated, warming his skin at the same time that the breeze brought up gooseflesh on his chest. Beneath him, the cool water sloshed and cradled him. He was happy. Robert and Elaine left sometime around 4:30. They popped out to say 'bye' to Greg, who was napping on a chaise lounge by the pool. Rachel was upstairs studying, they said, and there was a Netflix dvd on the kitchen table, and dinner in the stove. Elaine ruffled his hair, and suggested that he try to get Rachel to take a break and watch a movie. Greg nodded sleepily and then drifted off again. Rachel shook him awake at 7:30. The sun was almost down, and the sky had the fleeting blue/purple cast that marked the transition between dusk and nighttime. The moon was three quarters full, and as Greg slowly broke the syrupy surface of slumber, he saw a visible sprinkling of stars in the sky, and the slow red blink of a distant jet. There was also a slight hint of eucalyptus in the air, and the smell of wet grass from the neighbors' lawns. Rachel's hand was very cool on his shoulder, and Greg suddenly realized that he probably had vicious sunburn. "Get up" Rachel murmured. "Mom said I had to make sure you ate. I heated up the lasagna." She paused for a moment, and then touched him gently again on the shoulder. "Come on. I set up some plates outside. It's still pretty warm inside the house, especially since the stove's been on, it's prob'ly nicer out here." "Ok," Greg said, rolling out of the chaise and going up on his toes, arms up over his head as he stretched. When he finished blinking the sleep from his eyes he saw Rachel looking at his torso, and he glanced down, wondering how bad the sunburn was. When he looked back up and met her eyes, she flushed slightly. "You should probably eat," she said mildly, looking away, "you keep starving yourself for wrestling you're gonna end up with some sort of weird eating disorder." Greg laughed and sat down at the table, reaching for the spatula and plates. Rachel had lit a citronella candle to ward off mosquitos. The last of his sleepiness falling away as he took a swig of the lemonade she had brought out, he suddenly turned to her. "Why didn't you come out earlier" he asked. "I thought you wanted to swim." Rachel wouldn't meet his eyes, but shrugged slightly as she sipped at her own lemonade. She was wearing a white terrycloth bathrobe that covered her almost to her ankles, but its neckline was deeper than anything he had ever seen her wearing before, and he noted, almost idly, that she had no tan lines; the creamy paleness of her cheek and throat extended unbroken onto her upper chest. "I'm just not comfortable with it," she said quietly, glancing up at him with huge dark eyes, and then quickly looking away again. "you were out here, so I just figured I'd wait until you were done." "Whoa." Greg said. He started to say "that's just weird," but then bit it back, wondering if that might rub her the wrong way. So much seemed to rub her the wrong way. He cleared his throat. "Sorry. I didn't realize that, and it was kind of selfish of me. If you'd like, I'll go inside and watch TV," he gestured behind himself at the pool and hot tub. "You can have it all to yourself." "Well," Rachel said, setting down her lemonade, "I could just go in the pool now, while you eat." Her hand bunched the throat of the bathrobe together as she stared at him seriously, "but I'm a little self-conscious, so you'd have to promise not to turn around. I don't want anyone looking at me in a bathing suit." Weird. Greg thought again. Just freakin' weird. Did she think he was some kind of perv that was gonna check out his sister while she was swimming? I mean, granted, she wasn't --really- his sister, and granted, she was pretty damn. . . Greg reigned in that line of thought abruptly, thinking to himself, "that's EXACTLY why she doesn't want you watching. Because you ARE a perv, you perv, you. "Sure" he said. "I get it. You want a little privacy. No problem. I'll be a 'gentleman'" he laughed, adopting a plummy British accent, "and, as they say, avert my eyes." Rachel actually laughed. "Ok then. Thanks," she said. She stepped behind him, dropping her bathrobe across the back of his chair as she approached the edge of the pool. Feeling rather pleased with his own elaborate courtesy, Greg stared studiously ahead—at the sliding glass door that led into the now dark kitchen. The Citronella candle, the deck lighting, and the subsurface lamps that limned the walls of the pool, all combined to turn the sliding glass door into a near perfect mirror. He almost choked on the mouthful of lasagna, but forced himself to chew, although it now tasted like cardboard in his mouth. He felt something throbbing in his temples, and realized it was the hammering of his own pulse. Rachel, he suddenly remembered, was beautiful. He had seen it the first time they had met, and in the reflection of the glass door, he was seeing it again, now. She was wearing a one piece swimsuit that was entirely modest, but to him, seemed impossibly erotic. The black suit set off her creamy skin, accentuating the long smooth lines of her limbs and torso. Her hips were small, but swept into her tight butt with undeniably feminine softness. Her short black hair, always slightly fluffed out in a way that made him think of cute little baby chickens, riffled in the evening breeze. She shivered slightly, throwing one arm across her breasts, as she bent a knee and swept a small foot through the water, testing the temperature. "it's not bad!" she called back over her shoulder. "No" Greg choked out in response, his eyes locked on the smooth play of muscles in her long thighs and calves. "No, it's not bad at all." I'm in love, he thought, his mind spinning up a random bit of flotsam. I'm in love with her feet. She has the cutest goddamn feet. She hit the water in a smooth flat dive, and Greg suddenly remembered his promise. With a herculean effort, sweating as though he was walking across hot coals, and feeling utterly disgusted with himself, he forced his eyes back down to the food in front of him. He forced himself to cut small pieces and put them in his mouth. To chew. To NOT LOOK. To swallow. To fumble blindly for his glass and sip lemonade, and NOT LOOK. It felt like she swam for an eternity behind him. Like he was being tormented by some vicious Fury, as if he was both Prometheus, and the eagle that savaged the doomed god's guts, torn between pain and hunger. He was so preoccupied with wrestling his own lust, self loathing and despair, that he was startled when Rachel, once again wrapped in the terrycloth robe, plopped down into the chair and shoveled a couple of forkfuls of lasagna into her mouth. "I'm starving," she mumbled at him, one cheek bulging. "And that felt great. I've been wanting to do that all day." She eyed him curiously as he mutely stared back. She seemed more relaxed then he had ever seen her before, but he was suddenly as tense as a bent bow, and he was being very, very careful about speaking. He feared he might say some irrevocable, horrible thing that would bring the night sky crashing down around them. She arched a suspicious eyebrow at him. "What's wrong with you? You choking or something? Don't think I'm going to Heimlich you, 'cause that's just not happening." She kicked him playfully under the table, and the brush of her toes across his calf awakened 'the beast' with a suddenness that shocked him. Keeping his face carefully neutral, Greg took a sip of lemonade and then placed the glass carefully back on the table. "Why are you being nice all of a sudden?" he blurted out. The question seemed to stop Rachel in her tracks for a beat, but then she finished chewing, swallowed, took a sip of lemonade. . . . god, I'm in love with her throat. She has a beautiful neck. I could watch her drink lemonade all. . . "You were right, you know." Rachel said quietly. "The other day. When we were at breakfast, and your dad got so mad at you. But it was true. I was a total bitch. I've been a total bitch to you since you got here." She fiddled nervously with a fork, and there was something tremulous in her voice as she continued speaking, her huge dark eyes locked on Greg's as she forced herself not to look away. "You didn't deserve it. You really tried to be nice to me, but," her voice faltered for a moment, "that freaked me out. It reminded me of someone that I spend a lot of time trying not to think about." Greg just stared at her, afraid to speak. This was it, he thought. He was about to learn what everyone in this fucking house had been tiptoeing around for months. "I had a brother," Rachel said. "He was my big brother. Four years older than me, and he took care of me. He always took care of me." Rachel's voice caught slightly as she continued. "It's an old story. So old it's downright cliché. TV special of the week cliché. My dad was a drunk. He wasn't a monster, at first, but he got there, eventually. Jimmy was really just a kid, himself, but he always put himself in front of me, in front of mom." She related this in the matter of fact, toneless fashion that betrayed deep emotional damage. Greg recognized this tone of voice. He'd heard his father use it while reporting the news of his wife's death to friends, to estranged family members, to unknowing coworkers. Greg knew that tone of voice, and it made his flesh crawl. "He was a good brother," Rachel intoned, "but it was a bad situation, and it broke something inside him. He started feeling sorry for himself, and then he started feeling like he was," Rachel halted, and Greg suddenly realized that she was crying. That she couldn't speak, because she was struggling not to break down into wordless sobbing. Finally, she continued. "He started to feel like he was owed something. Like he'd paid the price in broken bones and lost teeth. Like it was his due, and he had it coming." Greg suddenly realized what she was saying, and he burst in, "Stop! Please. Stop. I don't want to hear this. I don't need to hear this. You don't have to explain this to me." Rachel angrily waved him to silence. "Yes I do," she blurted out. "I loved my brother. And it's not like he ever physically forced me." She was crying openly now, and the words came out in a rush, spilled onto the table between them, and her dark eyes were locked onto his face, looking for some sort of answer. "He never forced me. He just made me feel guilty. He made me feel bad, like I didn't love him unless I wanted to, to," she trailed off into silence. Greg was dizzy now, his head pounding with rage, and self loathing for the way that he had just been looking at this girl. I'm a monster, he thought. He wanted to flee, but he was numb, and afraid to move, afraid to look away from Rachel now that she was suddenly opening up to him. Clearly, she wanted something from him, but he had no idea what he could possibly give her. "Anyway," Rachel continued, her breathing becoming more regular, her voice calmer, "it fucked me up pretty good. I've been seeing a shrink about it. Dr. Griggs. She's very good with this kind of thing, or that's what I've been told, anyway. That's where mom and I go every Monday, you know. We say it's girls' night out, but it's actually mom driving me to Dr. Griggs' office. Sometimes she comes into the session, and sometimes she doesn't." "Does my dad know?" Greg asked. Even in the twilight gloom, Greg could see the flush creep up Rachel's neck. "Yes. He knows. I have problems going out in public ever since . . . then. And I have issues with . . . control. If someone's nice to me, it makes me suspicious, and angry, like they're trying to control me. It's all so," Rachel paused, fighting tears again, "it's all so humiliating. They treat me like a little baby, and I hate it. I just hate it." She looked up at Greg. "I don't think I could make it without you. Until you and your dad came to live here, I wasn't going to school. My mom was looking at a GED program, or homeschooling. But when you came, I could start going again. Didn't you ever wonder why I was still a senior in high school even though I'm almost twenty?" Sudden understanding dawned on Greg. "They're not sending you to look after me," he said, slowly. "They're sending me to look after you." Rachel nodded slowly. "And I hated you for it. I still do a little bit. You have to understand, sibling," she paused, looking for the right word, "relationships are complicated. Dr. Griggs has done a lot of research into this. And while it's utterly taboo, all the evidence indicates that," she paused again, searching for the right word, "mutual relationships are not a statistically significant source of future dysfunction." What the hell? Greg thought. What is she trying to say? What does that mean? Rachel recognized his confusion, and waited with growing impatience, as he failed to grasp her meaning. Finally, she blurted out "fucking your brother doesn't turn you into an utter freak if you're into it. It's a whole different thing if he forces you, or coerces you." Greg was taken aback by the stark crudity of her outburst, but he understood what she was saying. "This is the doctor's theory?" he said, disbelieving. "It's not just a theory," Rachel said. "It's science. There's a whole body of research that explains why siblings don't end up having sex with each other, and why some incestuous relationships can cause significant problems, while others don't seem to." She waved her hands impatiently at him. "It doesn't matter. What I'm trying to tell you is that I've been getting better. And Dr. Griggs says that you're a big part of it. She explained it all to your dad before you guys even moved in, because he was worried that it might end up hurting you." "Me?" Greg wondered out loud, "how would it hurt me?" Rachel's fingers toyed with the fork, and Greg could see her knuckles whitening as she idly stabbed at the lasagna. The question clearly made her uncomfortable, and she was hesitant in her response. "Projection. Surrogacy." She finally mumbled. "hunh?" "Surrogacy," Rachel said, louder, lifting her eyes to meet his, and then quickly looking away again. "Griggs has a theory that some of my dysfunction, my esteem issues, could be ameliorated by situational re-creation." "Ok," Greg said, "I'm pretty sure that wasn't even English." "I experienced incest," Rachel said coldly, distantly, not meeting his eyes. "In a situation that was emotionally coercive. I didn't feel that I had any control over my environment or myself. Since you've moved in, though, I've felt a bit more in control. My interactions with you," Rachel cleared her throat uncomfortably, "they help me feel more in control." Her voice took on almost a pleading tone as she looked up again. "That's really important to me, you know? And that means that you're really important to me." Rachel started playing with her food again, clearly avoiding his eyes while she continued in an almost clinical tone. "Dr. Griggs was pretty sure that this would inevitably lead to a certain amount of what psychiatrists call projection. She thinks that, in some way, I'm projecting some aspects of my relationship with my brother onto you." Rachel locked onto his gaze as she continued, taking care to speak slowly and clearly. "She also thinks that this might not necessarily be such a bad thing. That re-creating a sibling . . . relationship, particularly one in which I have control over myself and my environment, could help me heal." "But surrogacy is considered questionable by a large part of the psychiatric community," she continued, "It's technically legal, but doctors have been sued, and lost their licenses over such things." Her gaze wandered out toward the pool. "Griggs convinced mom, but Robert just wouldn't hear of it. " Rachel paused, "he just thought it was too risky." Greg suddenly realized what she was saying, and he felt queasy as he pushed himself away from the table and stumbled to his feet. "Me," he said. "You're talking about me." His mind raced as he flashed back on Rachel's sudden rage in the breezeway after the incident with Keener. On the knowing looks that had passed between his father and Elaine, the whispered conversations in the kitchen, the furtive glances. "Oh God," he mumbled, clutching his head and turning away from the table, "Oh God." He leaned over, suddenly dizzy, and fought to get his breath back. "Holy shit." From behind him, he could hear Rachel speaking, and there was something strained and desperate in her voice. "I'm sorry. I really am. My mom wanted to go ahead and do it anyway, despite the risks. She wants me to get better. But your dad wouldn't have it. He was too worried about what it might do to you." Greg heard Rachel's chair scrape against the ground, and then her voice grew nearer as she approached him from behind. He straightened, still fighting for breath, but did not turn toward her. Greg stared out at the green luminescence of the pool, the ripples in the water. As his panicked mind absorbed the full implications of what Rachel was saying, the spinning world slowed, stopped, and locked into place with an almost audible 'click'. The shimmering water, the coolness of the night breeze, the haylike scent of mown grass. Rachel's warm breath between his shoulderblades as she spoke. The smell of chlorine and eucalyptus wafting from her hair and skin. It was all so immediate, so close, so intense that Greg felt as though he had swollen immensely and was, like a snake, about to burst through his own skin. "I understand," Rachel said from behind him, her voice brittle and strained, "how disgusted you must be. With me." Her voice cracked, and she coughed slightly, clearing her throat before she continued. "And again, I'm sorry. I just thought . . ." her voice trailed off to almost a whisper, "I was hoping you could help." He heard her return to the table and pull her chair out. Heard the chair frame creak as she settled into it, the scrape of glass on the table as she idly toyed with her lemonade. "I really hope," she continued, in a voice that sounded sadly defeated, "that you can at least bring yourself to keep taking me to school. At least until I'm, you know, well enough to do it on my own. I'll understand, though, if you don't feel like you can." From where she sat, Rachel could see the glow of the pool lights behind Greg as he turned toward her. The backlighting, and the shadows cast by the flickering Citronella candle, obscured his expression. The silence drew out horribly. Rachel found herself a bit dizzy and, feeling silly, forced herself to start breathing again. "I'll do anything you want," Greg said bluntly, almost casually. Rachel wasn't sure she had heard correctly. He had seemed so horrified. So disgusted. She had thought, for sure, that she had wrecked everything. Touch Therapy Ch. 00 Greg repeated himself. "If it'll help, I'll do anything you want." Rachel stumbled over her words as she tried to think of what to say next. She had been reading all sorts of material that Dr. Griggs had either loaned her, or pointed her towards, and she was frustrated that she had no words at this crucial point. Communication was key to this process. How could she have let this happen? She hadn't expected this response, and hadn't really prepared for it. "Do you realize what you're saying?" she asked, "You realize that control is one of the main issues I'm working through here, right?" Greg nodded, so she continued. "Some of the stuff I've done already has hurt you, confused you, made you angry. I want to be clear that some of what I. . . need, might make you uncomfortable, or upset you. Are you OK with that?" Greg finally moved, approaching the table. As he sat, he pulled his unfinished lasagna toward him, and took a bite. "Yeah," he mumbled around the food. "I'm Ok with it. If it's going to help you, I'm OK with it." He swallowed, and stared at her, his expression solemn. "yeah, I'm a little freaked out. No, I don't know exactly what this means, but I meant it when I said I'd do what you told me to. I want to help." He paused, wanting to make sure she heard his next words very clearly. "I trust you. I'll do anything you want." Rachel felt a warm little sunburst in her tummy, and an ache in her heart. He can't possibly know what he's saying, she thought. But it was a start. A small victory. "Anything?" she echoed, raising an eyebrow at him, with a wicked grin. "Did you really just say anything?" "Oh man," Greg groaned, as if realizing that he had made a horrible mistake, "yeah. Yeah I did say that." Rachel laughed at his expression, and kicked him gently under the table, letting her toes graze along his calf muscle. "You poor boy, you," she said mockingly. "I am going to mess you up soooo bad." They sat there, eating quietly, studiously not talking about what had just happened. Practicing normalcy, as if it was a state they could actually achieve. The night cooled around them, September chill finally driving them into the warmth of the house. They cleaned the kitchen and the countertops, and then stood there in the kitchen in awkward silence, neither one of them quite sure what to do next. "Sooo," Greg finally said, desperately offering up something to break the tension. "Dad said there's a movie in the den. Some animated thing about a robot. You interested?" Rachel turned the thought over for a second. "you're asking me into your bedroom to watch a movie? Greg flushed slightly. "Actually, I was saying we could go into the den and watch a movie." "Where am I going to sit?" Rachel asked. Greg looked at her like she was crazy. "uh, on the futon," he said. "There really isn't anywhere else to sit, unless you want the beanbag chair." "So you want me to come to your room to watch a movie," Rachel said slowly, "and I'm going to sit on your bed with you." Greg paled, as he realized what she was getting at. "Oh! no," he stammered, "no, that's not what I was saying. Look, it's not like it's that weird. We all get together in there to watch movies sometimes. That's all I'm saying." "Ok," Rachel said, smiling. "That sounds like fun." And that's how Robert and Elaine found them when they returned from the restaurant. Together on the futon, Rachel in her robe, her feet drawn up underneath her, and her head resting on Greg's shoulder. Greg, exhausted, mashed into the corner, wrapped in a blanket with his feet propped up on the ottoman. He was fighting to focus on the movie, but the droop of his head revealed that he was clearly slipping toward sleep. As Elaine came through the door, she saw them, and quickly hushed Robert, who was about to call out. "Look!" she whispered, pointing. Robert quietly closed the door behind him, locking it. He followed her gaze, realization dawning. He looked at her questioningly, and she shook her head, putting her finger across her lips in a 'shush' gesture, and pointing up the stairs. The two slipped off their shoes, quietly hung up their jackets, and crept upstairs to sleep. In the darkened den, Rachel's eyes were fastened on the flickering television, but her vision was full of something else entirely. "Anything," she murmured quietly to herself, filled with a quiet glow of victory. "Anything I want." Touch Therapy Ch. 01 For those who are interested, there's a Touch Therapy: Prologue which sets up the events in this chapter. I'd characterize it as 'all foreplay, no fucking,' but if you're interested, it's there. Hey, some of us LIKE foreplay! * Greg and his dad had polished off half of an extra large pepperoni, and were only twenty or thirty minutes away from the end of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, when the front door flew open and bounced off the adjacent wall with a dull thud. Robert hastily brushed the pizza crumbs off his T-Shirt, mumbling "Uh, oh, the girls are home. Stash the porn and clean yourself up." Greg responded with a half hearted "Har -- de -- har har. . . gosh pops, you're such a stick," and then laughed more genuinely as 'pops' lunged at him with a grimace and dug a forefinger under his ribs, driving the breath from his lungs. "Stop, stop!" he coughed, thrashing about. His dad, assuming an evil villain voice, just poked him harder, saying "Oh hoh! The ungrateful brat dares to mock the mighty bringer of pizza! Such insolence must be repaid with great pain, and suffering, and. . . " he ran out of evil monologue and broke the bit off abruptly, letting Greg catch his breath while he caught him by the scruff of the neck and gave him an affectionate shake. "You better get ready for bed kiddo, you got school in the morning." Greg snapped him a mock salute and a quick 'Sir, Yes Sir!' and then carried the pizza box into the kitchen. As he was transferring the pizza into Ziplocs, he could just make out Elaine's voice from the front of the house, the sound of packages, and the thump of shoes being tossed into the hall closet. It felt, Greg thought, like 'normal' family sounds, and for a moment he felt a pang of sadness that it would not last, and that it had come so late. Eighteen now, and a senior in high school, it was only a matter of months until he headed off to college. As Greg headed back into the den and started to arrange the futon for bed, he saw Rachel pause at the foot of the stairs, whisper something quietly into her mother's ear, and then give Elaine a quick good night peck on the cheek. Rachel turned toward him then, favoring him with a quick smile, and walked through the kitchen and into the den, which doubled as his bedroom. She picked up the other side of the blanket he was holding, without asking, and began to help him shake it straight and tuck it into place. "Mom said it was O.K. if I stayed up a bit longer and watched some TV with you." "Fine by me," Greg said, eyeing her as he fluffed a couple of pillows. "Grab the other end, and help me put it back in couch mode." Rachel waved this suggestion away "No, just leave it down. I'll prop myself up on some pillows. That way, if you fall asleep, I can just sneak out without waking you up." Greg strongly doubted that he would be able to sleep with Rachel lying next to him in his bed, no matter how innocent the stated purpose, but he nodded dutifully and fished a few more pillows and a couple of throws out of a chest in the corner. Rachel caught them, then flounced onto the left side of the futon without hesitation, snuggling in under the throw and patting the mattress with her right hand. "Well come on, then," she said, "the remote's on your side. Fire up the Netflix." Greg did as instructed, paging through the instant queue until Rachel slapped his leg excitedly and said "That one!" He forced himself not to roll his eyes and groan "Oh sure, brooding sexy vampire boy. What else," and seconds later they were watching Angel. When Greg woke, it was much later. The room was darker now. The TV was on, but the show had ended and the screen was rolling through an assortment of screen savers. He was on his left side and, he realized, with some shock, Rachel was spooning with him. Her back and butt were pressed back into his chest and groin, and her head rested on his left arm. Her right hand was closed loosely around his right wrist, pressing his open palm against the bare flesh of her stomach where her t-shirt had hiked up. Her t-shirt? But she'd been wearing . . . Greg eased up on his left elbow, careful not to disturb the sleeping girl, and realized that she was now wearing clothing similar to his own. She had stolen a t-shirt and a pair of boxers out of his linen basket. Her face was relaxed in sleep, and her lips, slightly parted, were puffing light warm breaths onto his bicep. She was also drooling a little, and Greg was shocked at the sudden surge of emotion that welled up in him as he looked down at her somehow childish form. Then she mumbled something in her sleep, shifting against him, and transformed immediately into a creature that was anything but childish. The thin fabric of the borrowed T-shirt stretched tight against her breasts, bringing startlingly dark areolae into sudden relief, and her butt ground into his groin in a way that drew him to abrupt and focused attention. 'Holy crap,' he thought, as he stiffened almost instantly. He tried to pull gently away from her, but she mumbled in her sleep again, drawing his right hand tighter, and consequently lower, against her naked belly. His boxers fit her only loosely, and as her hand drew against his wrist, he felt his fingers slip inside the waistband. 'oh man. If she wakes up, I'm so screwed. She will --not- understand this.' Heart hammering in panic, Greg tried once again to gently disengage. Rachel shifted again, rising slowly into wakefulness, and then suddenly froze as she became fully conscious. 'I didn't. . . ' Greg whispered in her ear, 'this wasn't. . . ' Rachel shushed him, and Greg fell silent for what felt like an eternity, trying not to even breathe too hard, intensely aware of the way his erection was pressed insistently into Rachel's backside. After what felt like an eternity, Rachel shifted again. She turned her head slowly until her lips rested against his bicep. Then she kissed it. At the same time, her hips pushed gently backward, grinding deliberately against his hardened length. Greg gasped, gritted his teeth, and fought to control his breathing. Rachel's lips opened against the flesh of his arm and, with a slight moan, her tongue came out and licked lightly at his skin. "Don't move," she whispered, and Greg nodded silently, furiously, pretty sure that if he even twitched the wrong way, he'd be wearing a suddenly sticky pair of boxers. "Dr. Griggs said I should start with what she called 'touch exercises,'" Rachel murmured, her breath tickling coolly along the trace of saliva she had left on his bicep. "She said it was an important part of 'reconditioning' my responses." Her face turned up toward him, then, her lips only inches from his own, as she asked "I was going to ask you to try it tonight, but you fell asleep. Did you mean what you said?" Still somewhat stunned, Greg only managed "hunh?" "What you said!" Rachel repeated, somewhat impatiently, twisting toward him a bit more, the T-shirt tightening against her in even more distracting fashion. She reached back with her right foot, hooking it behind his calf and pulling his leg tighter against her. "You said you'd do anything. Did you mean it or not!?" "Yeah," Greg managed to blurt, "of course." Rachel paused, as if not quite believing him, then took the plunge. "Ok then. Don't do anything. I'm going to touch you, maybe move you around a little," she whispered, holding his hand by the wrist and moving it around in the air a bit by way of demonstration. "I want you to do your best to not do anything. If I ask you to move, or do something, I want you to do it, but don't ask questions unless you absolutely have to. Try to stay quiet." "Ok," Greg said dubiously, a slight frown on his face. "Why are we doing this again? I mean, this, specifically?" Rachel paused for only a second, and then told him that it was a suggested exercise in one of Grigg's books on sex surrogacy. "It's about trust," she murmured, "and control. When all your experiences are ones where you've had no control, and your trust has been abused, it damages your image of yourself. Wrecks your confidence, your self esteem." She paused, and then turning her face back toward his, her lips inches from his, said "it makes you angry at the world," her voice quavered for a moment before she went on, "Griggs said this might help me feel a bit less angry, a bit safer." Greg stared back at her, at the solemn expression on her face. Living with her so close, every day, he sometimes forgot just how beautiful she was. But then she would run her hand through the fluff of her short, downy hair, or bite pensively at her lower lip, or go up on her toes, reaching for a cup on a high shelf, and Greg would find himself holding his breath, struck dumb by a sudden pang of . . . he had no words for it. But as he looked at her dark eyes and delicately arched brows, the long line of her neck, the sweep of her thigh and calf, he felt once again that surge of inexplicable tightness in his gut and chest. It felt, he thought, almost like grief. He thrust the thought away before his mind could track it further, and swallowed hard. "OK," he whispered. "Ok." She kissed him then, leaning up and pressing her dark lips against his. Instinctively, he started to return the kiss, but she broke away, shaking her head. "No!" she whispered insistently. "No! Don't do --anything-. Don't try to guess what I want you to do. If I want you to do something, I'll tell you." Greg nodded his understanding, and stilling himself, he closed his eyes. Rachel pressed her lips against his once more, kissing him softly, lingeringly, her butt still pressed into his crotch, her right foot reaching back and hooking behind his calf, drawing him against her, her upper body twisted back towards him so that her lips could touch his. The position was awkward, though, and Rachel eventually pulled her lips from his with a small sigh. She unhooked her ankle from behind his calf and turned into him then, both her hands on his chest. Kissing him again, this time on the corner of his mouth, she took his right hand in her own, and placed it on her left hip, throwing her knee up so that it rested on his thigh. And she kept kissing him, sucking at first his upper and then his lower lip. Her teeth nipped playfully, daringly at the soft flesh, sometimes with almost enough force to make him wince. Finally, the tip of her tongue slid gingerly along his lower lip and forced its way into his mouth, thrusting past his lips, licking along the edge of his teeth, and pushing between them to touch his tongue. Greg fought not to respond, although his entire body screamed at him to pull her closer, to press his lips back against hers, to tighten his grip on her hip, and draw her toward him. Rachel deepened the kiss, her tongue probing into his mouth as she made tiny sounds in her throat. Her hands moved on his chest, sliding over his nipples. Her hip moved, it seemed involuntarily, under his hand, and her pelvis rocked forward toward him until he could feel the front of her boxer shorts against his own. He was suddenly grateful that his shorts did not have an open fly: relieved that his stiffened length wouldn't suddenly burst forth to wave awkwardly about. He could almost feel the heat of her groin, only millimeters away from his own flesh. More than anything, he wanted to pull her close, press himself against her, roll on top of her. . . Greg let out an involuntary groan that was muffled by Rachel's mouth over his. She broke the kiss with a soft liquid sound, and pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes. A tiny smile flickered around her lips, and then she ducked her head and nipped at his collarbone, pinching the skin sharply through the thin fabric of his shirt. Greg grunted in surprise at the unexpected twinge, then forced himself to silence. Rachel's hands roamed over his chest and shoulders, sometimes squeezing gently at the muscle, as she continued to kiss along his collarbone, her breath pushing warmly through the shirt. She tugged gently at the fabric, working her fingers under the edges of the short sleeves, dragging her short nails along the skin of his right arm, scraping the palm of her hand across the tip of a nipple, where it dimpled through the fabric. "Take it off," she finally said, one hand grabbing the bottom of the shirt and hiking it upwards, exposing his stomach. Greg squirmed around awkwardly until he managed to tug the shirt up and over his head. Rachel sat up a bit while he did so, helping him where she could. When he fell back against the futon, naked now from the waist up, Rachel remained propped on one elbow, her leg still thrown up over his, and her free hand tracing gently over his naked skin. Her face was carefully blank, but her eyes glinted in the flickering light from the muted television. Her hand stroked lightly across his stomach, and Greg's stomach muscles involuntarily tensed in a movement that ground his erection just briefly against the inside of Rachel's thigh. His eyes glazed slightly, breath coming faster at the heat of the contact. Rachel's eyes widened; then her face grew impassive again as she coldly instructed him to lie still. As a sophomore, Greg had wrestled at 138 lbs. Now a senior, he was a good thirty pounds heavier from muscle mass he had put on in the sudden growth spurt after his eighteenth birthday. While he no longer had the clean, delineated abs he had sported as a wrestler, his stomach was still flat and hard. Short dark hair curled on his sternum and on his lower belly. His skin, lightly tanned and freckled from hours by the pool, was marred here and there by small scars from incidental sporting or work injuries, and by stretch marks on one shoulder, where his sudden growth had outpaced his skin's ability to keep up. As Rachel stared down at him, Greg suddenly felt more naked than he ever had before; he felt brutal, and marred, and ugly, and he wanted desperately to pull the cast off shirt back over his torso, hiding the scars, the hair. The moment stretched interminably until Rachel finally nodded, as if to herself, and then leaned down and very slowly, deliberately, licked one of his nipples. Greg grunted at the surge of sensation that came with that simple action, shocked at the intensity of it. He was no virgin. He'd been with girls before, but this was . . . insane. His head swam dizzily as Rachel gently pulled him back into the position they'd been in before, and resumed kissing him, her hands now playing across his naked chest. Occasionally, she would draw her nails across his stomach, wrenching a shuddering grunt from him; he could almost swear that he felt her laughing quietly into his mouth every time she did it. It was almost unbearable. Greg didn't know where this was going, or how far. He trembled on the brink of completion at several points, fighting the urge to pull her against him, and grind his throbbing length against her until he spilled over. Rachel, meantime, seemed to be either indifferent to, or actively enjoying his discomfort. Any time he started to move his hand from her hip, or try to pull her toward him, or respond to a kiss, she would break away and freeze him with a sharp look and a stern word. Greg was suspended in a silent, screaming delirium of frustrated desire. Finally, Rachel paused for a moment, wrapping her arms around her younger brother's neck and shoulders, and pressing her lips against his ear. "Ok," she whispered softly. "We're going to try something else now. And you're going to have to follow my lead, OK? Think of it like," she paused, searching for the right words, "like dancing. I can't walk you through every step, or it won't work, but if you pay attention, you'll know what I'm asking, and you can follow. Can you do that?" Greg had no idea what she was asking him, really, but he gave a mute nod. Rachel ducked her head again, pressing her face into the warm skin of his chest. She dragged the nails on her left hand up and down his arm, from shoulder to wrist, and back again. Her left leg was still thrown up and over his right hip, and his hand still rested on her hip, where she had placed it. Now, moving with deliberate slowness, she encircled his wrist with her long, cool fingers, and drew it upwards, bending his elbow until her own hand lay behind his. She curled her fingers, forcing his fingers to move too. "You're going to give me a hand," she murmured into his chest, and then stifled a giggle. Greg's eyebrow twitched quizzically, but he stayed silent as she took his hand and stroked it down along the line of her hip. Immensely excited, his heart hammered away in his chest, and his breathing grew faster. Rachel moved his hand along her thigh in gentle strokes, then raised it and brushed it along the side of her face, touching her ear and lips and jawline. She bit gently at his forefinger, and then kissed him as she moved his hand down along her body, stroking her side, the edge of her ribcage, and then bringing his hand to rest on her left breast. She curled his fingers around her breast, squeezed gently, and then stroked the pad of his thumb across her hardening nipple, where it pushed through the thin fabric of her shirt. Greg's pulse was hammering in his head, but he was focused enough to see that Rachel's eyes were almost closed, her lips parted and breath coming faster. He could see a faint pulse throbbing in her throat, and there was a rosy flush creeping through her cheeks. She drew Greg's hand from her breast and, squirming about slightly so that she could get both hands around his wrist and hand, she brought his hand to her mouth. The purple cupid's bow of Rachel's lips split, her warm breath puffing out across his hand, where she held it between their faces, cupped between her own slender, pale fingers. Her breath smelled vaguely peppery, like dry summer grass. She sculpted his hand with her own, then, closing it into a fist that left only his first two fingers free. With a small, hungry sound, she drew his fingers into her mouth. Her eyes opened into his as saliva flooded her mouth, engulfing his fingers with a warm, slippery heat. She fastened her gaze insistently on him as her tongue pushed and probed, squeezing his fingers against her palate. Then she closed her eyes, and with a soft moan, tightened her grip and his hand, forcing his fingers deeper into her mouth, until his knuckles scraped against her teeth. Greg fought gamely for control . . . and lost. The band of muscle under his balls spasmed, his stomach muscles grew rigid, and his convulsing cock jetted what felt like a quarter cup of cum into the confines of his boxers. Desperately embarrassed, he gritted his teeth, his head falling back slightly as he struggled to remain silent. He held back all sound except a slight grunting moan. Rachel seemed almost not to notice. When Greg regained enough composure to open his eyes again, he found her eyes still closed, her hands cupped around his, her dark lips wrapped around his fingers still, sucking busily as her tongue slathered his fingers with hot saliva. Greg watched with a certain post-coital detachment: slightly self-conscious about the rapidly cooling jism plastering his boxers to his thigh, but mainly caught up in watching Rachel. Again, he found himself marveling at how beautiful she was. 'Snow White,' he thought to himself. That short and fluffy black hair, the dark, dark eyes, the oh so pale skin. 'She looks like Snow White.' But he was no Prince Charming, he realized, following the train of thought along its metaphoric rails. And he knew, then, how this would end. Felt the inevitability of it like a sudden weight upon his heart, squeezing the breath from him. It was all he could do not to cry out in anger and despair, not to grab Rachel, and shake her, and make her see it too. Touch Therapy Ch. 01 Instead, he watched in silence as she held his hand against her face, stroking it along her pale cheek, rubbing his fingers against her plum dark lips, licking and suckling at his flesh with an avidity that made him think of nursing puppies . . . and lampreys. No, he was no Prince Charming. He was, at best, just another sorcerous apple. Infused with curing balm, perhaps, instead of poison. His mind's eye saw a browning apple core, cast aside on the pine needle floor of a great forest, already spotted with a few first ants . . . and he shuddered. Rachel stopped suddenly, her eyelids flicking open. "Okay?" she mumbled around his fingers. He forced a smile at her, and nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just fine." Rachel's eyelids dropped again, as she pulled his slick fingers from her mouth. "Good," she whispered. "Good." She drew his hand down then, guiding it with both of her own, and pushed it under the loose elastic waistband of the boxers she had borrowed from him. The pine forest blew from Greg's mind like a mural scoured to dusty wind by an atomic blast. He felt the waistband of the boxers tight against the back of his forearm, felt the brush of her coarse pubic hair tickling against his palm, and the heat of her, as she used her own fingers to mold his hand, cupping it around herself, with the heel of his hand pressing down firmly against her mons, and his fingers pressing inward, across her clitoris and labia. "Like that," she murmured against his chest, grinding her crotch against his hand in hard little circles. "Just like that." There was a slight hitch in her breathing as she spoke and, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, tilted her head back. He bent his own head, and pressed his lips to hers, and this time she did not push him away. Greg noticed with a wry amusement that his erection had lurched back to life with startling swiftness. He was not surprised, though. Reservations and fears were stripped from his mind by the sight of her, her body arched, her face pinched in a grimace of concentration as her hands gripped his forearm with knuckle whitening force, grinding his palm against herself. Her small breasts pushed out against the thin t-shirt, the dark nipples clearly dimpling the fabric. The heel of her left leg, where she had thrown it over his thigh, was now digging into his hamstring with bruising force, as she used it to lever her hips forward against his palm. Greg ducked his head, and gently nipped one of her nipples through the shirt. "Oh fuck!" Rachel gasped quietly, hunching desperately against his palm, "oh fuck, oh fuck. . ." Greg curled his fingers then, just slightly, so that they slipped past her slick inner labia, and pressed just barely, fractionally, inside her. Rachel's whispery cries jumped an octave, becoming almost unintelligible, and one of her hands slipped down his forearm and covered his hand, driving against his fingers, pushing them further inside her heated box. She was sopping wet, both tighter and warmer than Greg could have thought possible, and it was clear what she wanted from him. Following her lead, he flexed his wrist and deliberately forced two fingers into her. For just a moment, her hips stopped thrusting against him, and her pinched face looked slightly pained, but then it passed, and her hips started moving against his hand again. Slower now, but with the same ferocious, driving intensity. Greg kept the heel of his hand firmly planted over her clit, and using the two fingers of his right hand, he pressed in, and up, against the top wall of her vagina. He hooked his fingers back toward himself, watching her face carefully for any sign of discomfort. When he had been with Jessie, she had loved this. Had shown it to him, patiently explained to him what he should do, what it felt like for her. Now, with Rachel, he was infinitely grateful for that tutelage. Rachel's hips had stopped moving, and her entire body had gone rigid. Her fingers, clawed with tension, dug into his forearm hard enough to leave nail crescents in his flesh. Jaw locked, head thrown back, she made guttural sounds in her throat as he worked his fingers in and out of her. Increasing the speed and pressure of the strokes gradually, he watched her face carefully. How much better, he thought, if I could strip these shorts off of her. Peel them down over the pale globes of her ass, lift her mound into my face and grind my upper lip against the fleshy nub of her clit while I pushed my tongue inside her, and tasted her. Furiously frustrated at the thought, his prick surged wildly against the confines of his shorts. He dipped his head, then, and straining awkwardly, with his fingers buried in her, tugged the bottom of her shirt up with his teeth. He kissed the pale flesh that stretched over her lower ribs, sucking gently at her skin, then strained to reach even lower, feathering his tongue across her stomach with just the lightest, breathiest touch. Rachel's taut body quivered, shaking like a bow bent to the breaking point. She gritted her teeth and convulsed, her body jerking, her core clamping violently, slickly, around Greg's still thrusting, still driving fingers. Her mouth opened and she cried out, lips forming a perfect 'oh'. Greg, suddenly worried, covered her mouth with his own to muffle her cries, and she panted her orgasm out into his lungs, her hips squirming desperately under his working fingers, wanting more, wanting to draw away from the intensity, wanting more. Eventually, she stopped twitching. Her demeanor changed almost instantly, and she tugged Greg's hand from her shorts with impatient force, and drew her leg off of his thigh, clamping her own legs together as if to protect her sensitive core. She lay, trembling, within the crook of his arm, her breath still coming fast and hot, the skin of her throat and face flushed pink. She was, Greg thought, unbearably beautiful. She opened her eyes, only to find herself staring directly into his gaze, and quickly closed them again, turning her face slightly away. Greg tried to kiss her then, but when she felt his lips on hers, she jerked her face to the side slightly, so that his lips grazed across her cheek. "Don't" she said, tightly, her eyes still closed. Greg paused, a little disconcerted, but then drew back. He continued to hold her though, his arms wrapped around her torso, cradling her against his chest, while her own arms drew away from him, and folded inward across her breasts. She did not protest further, but lay there quietly for what felt like a long time, eyes closed, head against his chest, arms wrapped around herself as her breathing gradually slowed, her body relaxed, and the flush faded from her cheeks and throat. When she stirred again, it was to pull briskly away from him, and swing her long legs off of the futon. She stood away, and turned slightly toward him, pausing, as if at a loss for words. Her hands made little inarticulate gestures in the manner that he had come to recognize as an expression of unconscious frustration, when she could not think what to say. "You okay?" he asked. Rachel's face darkened, and Greg realized that the concern in his voice had somehow pissed her off. "Of course," she responded, in clipped tones, "why wouldn't I be?" She didn't look Ok, Greg thought. She looked angry, and a little frightened, and that freaked him out a little, too, so he continued with some trepidation. "And, uh, was that what we were supposed to do? I mean, did I. . . did I do, you know, Ok? Was there something else I should," he broke off, not quite sure how to continue. Rachel, though, seemed somewhat calmed by the question. "No," she said, "that was fine, I think." She paused, her tone becoming distant, almost clinical, "I'll have to talk to Dr. Griggs, and see what she thinks, but I think that was pretty much what she was suggesting." She shrugged, then, and Greg's still hard cock jumped at the sight of her breasts moving under the thin fabric of the shirt. "So," Rachel paused, uncertain, "So, thanks, I guess. Uhm, I'll. . . I'll see you in the morning." She turned quickly and stooped, scooping the clothing she had worn into the room from the floor, then fled, still wearing his shirt and boxers. Greg was oddly disquieted by her abrupt departure, and he lay back against his pillow. His disquiet faded, though, as the image of her, straining in orgasm, swam before his eyes. He felt his cock leap insistently at the vision, and with a sigh he dipped his right hand into his shorts, and wrapped his fingers around his pulsing shaft. Eyes closed, he imagined Rachel entirely naked, thighs slung over his shoulders while he cradled her tight ass in his hands and buried his face in her crotch, licking her juices up like froth from a foaming cup. He came almost immediately. /break/ Alone in her room, Rachel lay in her bed, curled in the fetal position, eyes wide open, staring into the dark. That hadn't been right, she thought. That hadn't been what she expected. She didn't feel 'better', or 'calmer' or 'safer' at all. She didn't feel more in control. She felt, instead, like her world had cracked. The past few weeks had been good, better than she could possibly have hoped. She had shared her secret with Greg, and he had supported her, promised to help her in any way he could. And she had felt close to him, accepted, more comfortable than she had been in a long time. And there had been the delightful thrill, too, of anticipation. Of reading about 'touch therapy', and planning what she was going to do. She had suppressed any sort of genuine desire for so long that she had been truly surprised by her reaction to her new step-brother. She had thrilled at the casual contact of their hands brushing together as they walked to the bus. She had thought dark and lascivious thoughts as she watched him swim, or get a soda from the fridge, or stretch at the breakfast table, all lean muscle and unconscious grace. And it had been Ok, she thought, because it had been cautiously, tentatively sanctioned by her doctor. And she had done the research. On the page, it all seemed so rational, so clinical. Of course it would work. This was, clearly, a way back to health for her. This would fix her, bolster her confidence, polish the sharp corners off of all the jagged little pieces of her soul that still cut her inside if she moved the wrong way, or thought the wrong thing, or remembered. . . "Oh fuck," Rachel spit out in desperate whisper, "fuck, fuck , fuck." She cradled herself, rocking gently, while she remembered the way he had had struggled so hard to remain silent while he came. She had fought not to laugh, then, feeling powerful, triumphant. But that didn't last long, she thought, bitterly. Her brother was solid, and warm, and handsome. He was kind. His breath smelled like walnuts and citrus. And she fucking owned him. He had basically said as much when he had promised to do anything she wanted. She had him wrapped around her finger. He was her little puppet, wasn't he? I mean, that's what he had promised. But she felt, now, that this just wasn't true. This couldn't be right. Not only did she not feel in control now, but she wasn't even sure she wanted control. She bit back on the thought with a savage self-contempt. That way lay sickness. Madness. That way lay the long days of silent screams suffocated under an icy, controlled façade. She couldn't, wouldn't, go back there. She thought of how warm and comfortable she had felt riding on the bus with him, walking home with him. The way she felt happy when he clowned around, and laughed that self deprecating laugh. She thought of how her chest would ache when his eyes went all soft and distant, and he stared off at nothing, lost in his own thoughts. In those moments, he looked so young. Almost pretty. She thought of how protective and maternal she felt when she caught him sleeping during movies, face slack and peaceful, or when she saw him struggling with his algebra, his expression screwed up in fierce concentration and frustration. Rachel shuddered in her bed, and felt tears well up in her eyes. Something had clearly gone horribly wrong. She had felt in control at the beginning, sure, but she felt anything but in control now. Now she wanted to rush back downstairs and throw herself on top of him. She wanted to strip him naked, rub her hands across his naked chest, and bite his nipples while she ground against the hard bar of him. She wanted to peel those flimsy boxers off of him. Wanted to dig her nails into his thick quads, to draw his pulsing length into her mouth, and feel the insistent push of him against her working tongue. She wanted to taste the salt of his sweat, and the bitter tang of his precum. She wanted to feel his hands on her breasts, her ass. To feel him work his fingers into her short hair and . . . she wanted him to --fuck- her. She trembled at the thought that maybe, just maybe, she had bitten off more than she could chew. She needed to see Dr. Griggs. Soon. Very soon. Rachel hugged herself tightly, trembling, and fought an overpowering urge to go back downstairs. Touch Therapy Ch. 02 Rachel leaned back into the overstuffed couch, stockinged feet tucked up underneath her, and tried not to fidget nervously. Dr. Griggs was doing that thing that psychiatrists and cops do: ask an open-ended question, and then let the room fill with a silence that stretches out endlessly. Rachel recognized the technique as one designed to nudge a subject into unguarded discourse, to push one into prattling carelessly and spilling secrets. She supposed Griggs' motivations were pure enough, but she resented the approach anyway, and was irritated at being pushed in that way. But Griggs was a practiced expert, and sat with a relaxed patience that clearly communicated that Rachel, after all, must continue. That it was as inevitable as the change of seasons. Finally, Rachel could stand it no more. "No," she blurted, defensively. "No, I don't feel like I'm just making up justifications to make myself feel better. He really isn't my brother, after all. Not by blood, anyway." She waited for Griggs to jump in and refute her, but the doctor just smiled that infuriatingly detached, professional smile, and flicked her heavy gold pen in a 'go on' gesture. Rachel sighed irritably, and continued, "I don't feel guilty about it," she insisted, "not at all. I mean, he's a guy. I'm pretty sure he's just happy he got off." Griggs sat forward at that, her expression becoming more intent. "Is that," she asked, "really what you think? I'm not saying your assessment is incorrect, mind you, as I've not actually met Greg, but do you really believe that's his perspective on what happened?" Rachel dropped her eyes to the pattern on the Persian rug, brow furrowing. She tried not to sound petulant when she answered, "Maybe not, but he's a guy, and I just can't believe he's all 'conflicted,' or anything." She looked back to Griggs, who had sat back in her chair, and was letting the silence stretch out again. God that was irritating. "Okay," Rachel admitted finally, "Okay, I don't really believe that. He's a bit of a boyscout, so I think maybe he's a little freaked, but I think he's also glad that he's helping me get better." Rachel paused then, meeting Griggs' professional gaze with her own as she earnestly insisted, "and he is helping me. Everything has gotten better since he moved in. Everything." Griggs nodded, tapping a gold pen on the legal pad she held in her lap. She looked, Rachel suddenly realized, like Lindsay Wagner in a pantsuit. 'My bionic therapist,' Rachel thought, struggling not to laugh out loud. "I understand," Griggs said, "that you're actually making some friends at school." The doctor gave Rachel a small smile, adding, "Why don't you tell me about that?" "I joined yearbook," Rachel said, happy with the change of focus. "I've got all my college requirements out of the way, so I just needed some elective units." She shrugged, "and some of the girls in there are alright. We sort of talk while we work. Tilly's teaching me how to take decent pictures with a digital camera, and Sherri's a bit of a goof." Rachel's eyes gazed off into the middle distance, and she smiled at something only she could see, saying "she plays French horn, you know. And she makes us laugh." "That's good," Griggs nodded approvingly. "That's a very healthy development. Would you consider them close friends? The kind of friends you could, say, trust for advice about personal issues? Do you ever talk to them about how you feel about your step-brother?" Rachel's eyebrows shot up in shocked horror at the thought. "God, no," she sputtered, "Are you nuts? If anyone found out about what happened to me, or what I'm, you know, doing. . ." She shook her head, her pale hands coming out of her lap, slender fingers spread wide, as though the possibility was one she could literally push away. "No," she insisted, "no, I'm never going to tell anyone about this." Griggs' face remained professionally neutral, but there was a hint of disappointment in her voice when she responded. "Rachel, I think we need to explore that further. You seem very resistant to the idea of forming close relationships with people beyond your mother and, now, your brother. This troubles me. The end goal has always been to enhance your social function, and your comfort with other people." Griggs paused to jot a brief note, and continued. "The social withdrawal, the social stigma that you felt after your abuse. . ." "My brother didn't abuse me," Rachel interjected coldly. Griggs impatiently waved one hand, as though batting away a fly. "Nevertheless, you experienced trauma due to the nature of your relationship with him. You felt ashamed, stigmatized." The doctor's steely blue eyes met Rachel's dark gaze with a disconcerting directness. "Setting aside the issue of who was responsible, the end result was a social isolation that you're still struggling with. Is this not so?" Rachel nodded in weary acknowledgement of issues they had already worked through, and Griggs continued, saying, "and expanding your social circle beyond your immediate family, building healthy relationships with others," Griggs paused, slowing her speech to emphasize the import of her words, "healthy relationships that include the key element of trust, is the end goal here." Griggs sat back, once again tapping her gold pen on the legal pad. "You have to do the work, here, Rachel, if you want to reach the end goal. I think we both know that you've been playing a little fast and loose with the advice I gave you." Leaning forward, Griggs waited in silence until Rachel reluctantly met her gaze. "I told you," Griggs admonished with sudden, grim severity, "that your step-brother Greg was not a suitable surrogate. You've been wildly irresponsible with the research materials I lent you." Confident that she had Rachel's full attention, Griggs leaned back again, her tone softening, although the rebuke was still evident. "That's not to say that you haven't made progress, or realized any benefits from your interactions with him, but from what you've told me about recent events," Griggs trailed off, shaking her head. "Well, there may be associated costs that we can't even begin to estimate yet." The concern in Griggs' voice was apparent, but Rachel could feel her own stubborn side welling up, rejecting what the doctor was telling her. "Our priority now," Griggs continued, her demeanor becoming professionally brusque, "is to de-escalate the intensity of your interactions with Greg, and transfer some of that context onto more acceptable objects. A good start would be to further cultivate your friendships with the girls in your yearbook class and, if possible, attempt to make some male friends as well." Griggs preemptively waved off Rachel's objection, saying "I know. I know. You still have problems with forming those sorts of relationships, but you know that my clinical method is heavily informed by dialectical approaches. As always, you need to practice the behaviors you want to become proficient at, and you need to remain mindful of your own emotional responses during that practice, so that you don't self-sabotage. So make an effort. Reach out to some other people. Establish some relationships beyond your brother, and cultivate those." Griggs paused, then, emphasizing her next words. "You may have realized some benefits in terms of enhanced emotional confidence, but your relationship with your brother is still, at its root, maladaptive." Griggs jabbed her pen against the legal pad at each syllable, underlining the seriousness of the situation, as she repeated, "maladaptive." Rachel nodded in reluctant assent, "Yes doctor." But in her mind's eye she saw Greg, head thrown back, face tight and distant with strained focus. In her mind's eye, she felt his hand under her own, strong and warm, as she pressed his fingers against the straining, working softness of her tongue and palate. In her mind's eye she felt his fingers moving inside her, and the warm crush of his lips against hers as she surfed along the swift, surging flux of her climax. "Yes, doctor Griggs," Rachel said, striving to convey enthusiastic sincerity, "I understand how important that is. I'll really work on that." "Good," Griggs said. "Very good. Now, did you want me to speak with your mother? As always, the content of our sessions is privileged, and I won't discuss them with her without your consent. But if you wanted me to reassure her about your progress, or convey some other information to her, I'd be more than happy to." Rachel shook her head slowly, "No," she said, as though giving the matter careful consideration. "No, I think for the moment that we're doing okay. If something comes up, though, I'll have her call you." "Excellent," Griggs said, beaming, "well, that's our time! Focus on the homework, practice mindfulness, like we discussed, and we can talk further about your progress next week." "Yes, Doctor." /Break/ Rachel stood in front of the full length mirror in her room, checking her reflection. She eyed her breasts with a critical glance, wishing they were a bit larger, fuller, and then turned slightly to eye herself in profile. Her nipples, she thought, were far too small and dark. And that tiny brown mole on the underside of her left breast-- uggo. But at least she had great legs, she mused, and a decent ass, if a bit narrow through the hips. She turned again, looking at herself straight on, assessing, evaluating. She kept her mound trimmed in a tidy little triangle, and the blackness of her hair stood out starkly against her pale skin. She thought of Sherri, from her yearbook class. Buxom, smiling Sherri, with the golden tan and the hair so blonde it seemed almost white. Rachel sighed. No tan here, she thought begrudgingly, wondering if she'd ever be confident enough to lie under the sun in a bikini. She glanced at the clock on the wall, checking to see how much longer until it would be dark. How much longer until her mother and Robert would retire to bed. It was only late afternoon, now, which meant that night was an eternity away. Pushing away the thought, she tried on a couple of her T-shirts, finally settling on one that was soft and form fitting enough to show off her trim figure, as well as a hint of nipple. She fished an old pair of sweats from a top shelf. She never wore these, except to bed on very cold nights, but she liked them because they were worn thin and soft with age. And they fit snugly, hugging her butt and thighs with a flattering immodesty. She wondered if it would seem deliberately slutty if she didn't wear underwear under the sweats, and then decided it was probably common enough that she could get away with it. Compulsively, she glanced at the clock again, willing it forward. Downstairs, she could hear Greg moving about in the kitchen, clattering pans, running water, and periodically busting out in accompaniment to the stereo he had blaring in his den. Well you beg me to stay, then you tell me to go. All this up and down, well it's wearin' on my soul. I'm wond'rin if our futures gonna look just like our past. Cuz I got one foot in yer doorway, babe, 'nd I got one foot on the path. Rachel laughed softly to herself as she listened, feeling a slight pang. He was sweet, alright, but he could not sing. He had returned from a run about forty minutes ago, and she had watched him from her window as he huffed air at the door, fumbling with the lock and dripping sweat. She had wondered, idly, what it would be like to wrap her arms around him as he stood there. Probably gross, she thought. Sticky. And yet she thrilled slightly at the thought. And when she'd heard him in the shower, she'd wondered again what he would think if she just strolled in and joined him. And did it matter? She turned it over and over in her head, remembering what Griggs had said, and then impatiently discarding the thought. Greg had made her a promise. He had said he'd do anything, and that word had lodged in her mind like a hook. It drew her, with a constant pressure, urging her again and again to test the promise, to test -him-. Rachel forced herself not to look at the clock again, instead turning slowly in front of the mirror, eyeing the T-shirt and sweats. They looked suitably casual, she thought. Not overtly or deliberately sexy, but eye catching. She crossed her arms briefly under her breasts, pushing them out so that they looked fuller, and the nipples pushed into visibility. She took a deep breath to still the butterflies in her stomach, then headed downstairs. Greg spotted her as she swung into the arch that marked the transition from the kitchen to the tiny living room. "Heya!" he shouted over the blaring music, glancing at her over one shoulder. He fumbled on the counter for the remote and turned the music down to little more than background murmur. "Sorry about that," he grinned. "I get a little excited. Sometimes I forget other people are studying. And with dad out of the house, I figured I could crank it up for once." "Robert's not here?" Rachel asked, puzzled. "Nah, he got called in to the plant to cover a graveyard shift. Sucks, but as a supervisor he has to either work the shift himself, or make someone else work it." Greg made a face at her over his shoulder as he chopped more vegetables, "And you know how he is. He's not going to ask someone else to pull a double if he can cover it." Greg, turning back to the stove, pulled a lid from a steaming pot at the back and dropped a wooden spoon into it to give it a quick stir. Rachel walked behind him and seated herself at the kitchen table, turned one chair sideways so that she could lean against the table, and carefully crossed her arms under her breasts, just as she had upstairs. "And mom?" Rachel asked, keeping her voice casual. "Nope," Greg shook his head without turning around, raising his voice. "The company's rolling out that office software package. She's probably going to be herding code monkeys pretty much nonstop for the next few days." They were alone in the house, Rachel thought. And would be, all night. The butterflies in her tummy exploded into a furious fluttering storm. He had known this, she thought. Probably for hours. And he was. . . cooking? She threw a quick glance over her shoulder, looking out the other side of the kitchen. The sheet that served as a door to his makeshift bedroom was pinned back, and she could see the futon, folded up into couch form, with untidy blankets bunched up around the edges. She flashed briefly back to the other night, remembering the feeling of his fingers, pressing into her, stroking along her most delicate flesh. She remembered, and felt a surge of liquid heat at her crotch. She turned back, frowning in irritation and drumming her short nails against the table while she watched him move about the kitchen. "So we're alone in the house," she said. "Yep," Greg replied, giving her a quick grin, and then gesturing with the wooden spoon, "So I'm making dinner tonight!" He stepped back to the cutting board, and started to core out and de-seed some bell peppers with quick, practiced movements. "I'm thinking brown rice," he said, pointing the knife at the pot at the back of the stove, "and veggies, with some lean beef sliced in, and a little garlic and soy-sauce to finish it out." "Oh!" he said, as if just remembering, glancing at her again over his shoulder, "we've got icecream in the freezer. Elaine picked it up the other day. She called, said we could break into it if we wanted. Dark raspberry and chocolate." "Dark raspberry and chocolate," Rachel repeated numbly, woodenly, thinking again, he's known for hours. Hours. I was sitting all alone in my room. He knew. Probably before he even went for a run, he knew. Rachel stared at Greg's back, feeling suddenly cold. He had changed into a fresh t-shirt after his run, and it clung to his back where he was still damp from the shower. He had also thrown on a pair of grey sweats, legs raggedly hacked off above the knee to form shorts. Rachel watched the play of muscles around his shoulder-blades as he chopped vegetables, watched the flex of the tendons in his thick thighs and calves as he moved about the kitchen. He had known, for hours. And he had let her sit there, alone in her room. She saw herself in her mind's eye, checking herself in the mirror, turning from side to side to see how the sweats made her ass and legs look. Worrying about what he would think when he saw her. Wondering if he would like it, if he would think she looked nice, looked sexy. She looked down at herself now, feeling stupid. Her stomach was knotted with tension, and desire. She could feel her wetness slicking her inner thighs, starting to soak into the thin fabric of the sweats, and she squeezed her legs together, flushing hotly as she imagined the dark spot spreading outward from her crotch. Christ, she was falling apart here, and he was, was just . . . cooking. He didn't want her, she thought, with a sudden flash of anger. Not really. They'd been alone in the house for hours, and he'd been down here singing along with his stupid CD. So why had he, that other night. . . why had. . . did he just feel sorry for her? She felt the back of her throat closing up, and she bolted out of the chair, almost knocking it over. She stood there, stiff-legged, trembling, infuriated by how small he'd made her feel without even trying. Greg had half turned at the sound, alarmed. Now he finished turning, slowly, puzzled by the expression on her face. "Take your shirt off." Rachel gritted out, fighting back angry tears. "Rachel?" Greg asked, confused, the wooden spoon dangling, forgotten, from his hand. "TAKE IT OFF!" Rachel shouted. She stepped forward, her face inches from his own, and yanked the spoon from his hand, tossing it onto the counter behind him. In the tense silence, the pot of brown rice bubbled, and the stirfry crackled gently. "You said anything," Rachel hissed with stony bitterness. "Anything. Did you mean it or not?" "Well, yeah," Greg said quietly, staring into her dark eyes. "But," he gestured at the stove behind him, "I mean. . ." "Take it off," Rachel interrupted, her voice very quiet, and very cold. Greg nodded slowly in assent, his eyes still searching hers for some clue to what was going on here. He crossed his arms, grabbing the bottom of his shirt, and then drew it up over his head and off. Rachel eyed his naked torso, her mouth suddenly dry, and pointed commandingly at the kitchen floor, indicating where he should drop the shirt. Greg complied. "Shorts too," Rachel husked out. Greg's face flushed instantly, showing pink even through the tan. "Rachel, really," he started, embarrased. But Rachel cut him off with a furious look and a sharp gesture. Greg almost flinched under that look, more confused than ever. "Okay," he said, "okay." Face flaming, he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of the sweats, yanked them below his hips, and let them fall. He kicked them over to lie with the shirt. Naked now, he stood as straight as he could. Staring back into Rachel's eyes, fighting not to look as embarrased as he felt. "Rachel," he started, "what's. . . " Rachel was on him before he could finish the question. Greg had several inches on her, and was considerably stronger, but she was driven by an anger she could not express any other way. She locked both fists in his hair and yanked him forward and down. Greg, caught by surprise, stumbled forward, bowed forward, then dropped to his knees, trying to escape the ferocious pain. The heavy thump of his knees on the tile floor was drowned out by his cry of surprise and pain as Rachel reversed direction, using her cruel grip to drag his head back, tilting it up so that she could look down into his face.