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Vendetta

By: Winterfrog



Many thanks to Techsan for editing this story. 

*

It was a chilly and windy midwinter evening with large snowflakes filling the air, which caused my best friend Alexander - "Lex" among his friends - to drive slowly on that lonely Scandinavian county road. We were on our way to my home in a rented Ford Transit van. Due to the bad weather we were later than planned, but I didn't care because this sad day couldn't be worse than it already was. 

All lights in my house were switched off but as expected, a black BMW, covered by several centimeters of newly fallen snow, stood parked on my driveway. Had I not fixed the lock in my garage, the BMW would have been hidden inside there. Lex parked the Ford on the street so the BMW would have a free way out. 

Lex asked me, "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay."

Lex kept talking, "So far it seems to be exactly as you feared. Do you still want to go on as you've planned?"

"I do."

I think Lex was a bit unsure about me because he asked, "Okay, I'm with you but stay cool. For heavens sake don't go too far."

"No, I'll only do what I have to do." 

We went to the house, I unlocked and opened the front door and we went in. Lex took up his digital camera, I waited while he made it ready, and then he followed me to the master bedroom. No reaction from the room when I slowly opened the door. Then I switched on the light and rushed to the bed, dragged off the comforter and just as expected, we saw two naked people sleeping there. One of them was my common-law wife Anna-Lena and the other was Samuel Albertson, an accountant working with her and usually known by his nickname "Ass-Hole-Albertson". 

Anna-Lena began screaming when I dragged Albertson off the bed, hit him hard several times in his belly with my right fist before giving him a hard kick between his legs so he fell to the floor. With a hard kick to his ass I ordered him to rise up from the floor. When he was up, I dragged him to the front door where a new hard kick to his naked ass sent him flying in the snow. Lex took pictures as fast as the flash on the camera allowed him to do. 

Back in the bedroom I shouted to Anna-Lena, "The damn asshole out there needs his clothes."

She screamed, "Oh, my God! Did you throw him out naked in a snowstorm?" 

"Shut up and don't blame me. I didn't strip him. Get his damn clothes out of my house."

She collected his clothes and left the bedroom. I think she put on a coat and her boots at the hall before she went out to him and a few minutes later we heard him drive away.

When Anna-Lena was back in the house I told her that I didn't wanted any excuses or explanations because the only thing that remained for her to do in this house was to get dressed, pack her belongings and get out. But the only thing she could do for the time being was to sit down in a kitchen chair and cry loudly. After a while she dressed, rang for a taxi and left.

Lex went for the Ford and we took in the cardboard boxes to the house and he and I began to pack Anna-Lena's clothes and other personal belongings in the boxes.

In the morning we loaded the boxes and her new TV into the van and I took it to her parents' house. Nobody opened the entrance door when we rang the bell, so we piled the cardboard boxes and the TV against the house. While looking at the windows both Lex and I was sure we saw somebody watching us behind the curtains.

Anna-Lena's driving license was cancelled for speeding and as I owned her car we let it remain in the garage. Back at the house we changed all locks before we left for the next town, which was Lex's current hometown where he had rented the Ford Transit. After a short stop at his home we went skiing for a week in the mountains where our two friends already were waiting for us in a rented cabin. 

I'm Michael Hagen, a 32 years old owner of a small but rather profitable small factory, specializing in making patented high quality steel clips, sold to customers in 14 countries. It was my uncle who invented and built the automatic multi-operation machine, the only one of its kind, which makes them. When he retired, he sold it to me for a fair price. A single mother working half time and I were the only employees. 

Once again I had had a crushed relationship. I sent Anna-Lena a text message and suggested we meet to sharing some other things in our home when I got back from my vacation. 

Lex, me and the two other friends, whom we joined at our vacation, used to be lucky with horses. We put some money on V75 every week and so far we had gone plus every year. V75 is a very popular and very big weekly horse game. The simple rule is to pick out the winners in seven trotting races. Seven winners in a bet can give anything between 100 and 20,000,000 equal to US$ depending on the number of unexpected high odds winners in the races and far less prizes for bets with for six and five winners. 

Of course, to pick out seven winners in seven races would be a genuine mission impossible if it hadn't been for the very low price, equal to 8 US cent a bet. Most people used to pick out a single winner in two of the races and have the other five races covered with several horses in each race. Our gang usually gambled for amounts equal to 200 - 250 in US$ a week, which gave us system with 1500 - 2000 bets. 

If I could be regarded as lucky with horses, it was quite opposite with girlfriends. Usually it was easy for me both to get them and get rid of them. Sanne, the girl before Anna-Lena was a real beauty, tall, slim, and naturally blond but unfortunately she fit into the description "stupid blonde". 

Many guys in town regarded me as a fool when I dumped her but I found it impossible to be with a woman who never did anything at all at home and spent everything she earned on clothes, hair and make-up equipment. Though I got some money from V75 and took a fair salary from my company, which gave me a good living for an average guy, I was too poor to afford an expensive trophy girl like Sanne, especially after her interest for sex began to be limited to quickies. We parted without quarrel and she almost immediately met a wealthier guy who was happy with a new trophy girlfriend.

I met Anna-Lena, who was quite different and in many ways a dream girl during our first four years together until her company hired Ass-Hole-Albertson as their new accountant. 

Albertson is a funny guy in many strange ways. He is the most clever and best-paid tax expert and accountant in this small town. Living a good life with a lovely beautiful wife, two nice small kids and one of the nicest houses in town, he got into serious problems when his wife at last caught him cheating. She kept him sweating for some time before she forgave him after counseling and his promises never to do it again. To keep some pressure on him she demanded and he agreed to give her their expensive house as her private property. Albertson kept his promises and was faithful for almost a year before he was caught again. Now she kicked him out and filed for divorce.

After sharing their stocks, bank accounts and losing the expensive house, Albertson moved in with his mother in her big house. Though he had several discrete affairs while married, now he forgot all scruples. He sold his family car and bought an expensive BMW as a real "extender". In this country we have a national car register with three random chosen characters and three digits on the plates. Albertson's BMW had a plate that began with AHA. 

The rumors goes that the first time Albertson came to the Golf Club with his new BMW and began bragging about the car, one of the present members said, "If you're taking that damn 'extender' to Scotland during your next golf trip there, the Scots will be convinced that AHA stands for 'Ass-Hole-Albertson'"

After some laughter, one of the other golfers, who obviously didn't like Albertson said, "It means exactly the same thing here too." 

Like we use English words such as 'swing', 'hook', 'green', 'birdie', 'eagle', 'hole in one' and several others in golf, Albertson's new English nickname was accepted without any problem among the golfers. 

From that moment many club members began to call him for Ass-Hole-Albertson, probably because he had caused a very sad divorce for a nice couple at the club and his habits of using his wealth and social talents for seducing and fucking other men's wives and girlfriends rather soon got his new nickname spread all over the town. 

Albertson didn't like me very much since I had refused to vote for him as chairman in our Marina Club, which had left him yelling at me about paying back with interest. 

Obviously he saw his possibilities to get "two flies in one hit" when the old accountant at Anna-Lena's work retired and Albertson was hired to replace him. Probably he would have made his attempts on a lovely woman like Anna-Lena whoever she had been married to. But now he didn't see any disadvantages of both getting even with me and fucking the very nice woman I intended to marry in the future.

As usual, Albertson did a good job when he immediately saw how old and inefficient their accounting system was and persuaded the owners to purchase new modern computer programs and assisted Anna-Lena to get used to them.

Of course they had lunches together now and then and as there were nothing strange with that I hadn't any reason to care about what Anna-Lena did at her work or with whom she had her lunch.

Then she began to show signs of her increasing interest for Albertson. She told me he did so and so, the price of his Rolex, how much he bragged about having won in Monte Carlo compared to the peanuts that I in his opinion got from the horses and much more of his bragging. When she began to dress in different ways those days Albertson would come to her work, I had enough and tried to have a friendly talk with her about his earlier known seductions of married women and the consequences it had caused them and what it would do to her if she went too far in her admiration of Albertson.

Anna-Lena didn't appreciate my kind warnings, not at all. Instead she became angry as a wasp and accused me of being a jealous nerd who saw ghosts in daylight because I probably envied a successful man like Albertson. I really did my best to get Anna-Lena to understand that this Ass-Hole-Albertson most of all wanted to get even with me because in his opinion I had seriously humiliated him at the Marina Club. I told her that he was a notorious pussy hound slowly working for his chance to get into her panties and when he had done that, she would be out of my life and probably even out of Albertson's because his only interest was the seduction, not any relationship with "fucked sluts" as he used to name his used preys. 

Nothing happened in that matter before the V75 gang had booked our annual "boys week" at a winter holiday resort in the north. Albertson had been away to see the national hockey team playing a match in our county capital and several drinks later at the hotel bar after the match he had bragged about getting a creep's lovely wife very hot and when the creep went skiing in the mountains, he would spend the nights with that lovely wife.

Though the admirers had promised to keep quiet, one of them had told his wife, who told her sister, who told her fellow worker, who told her husband, who happened to be one of my V75 friends. He knew about Ass-Hole-Albertson's increasing interest in Anna-Lena and told me so we could make our plans to take care of that problem.

My plan had been simple: before going to the vacation I fixed the garage doors so they could not been opened from any side so Albertson had to park his BMW visible on my driveway. On my way to the north I would make a stop at Lex's house for a couple of days if necessary while waiting for information from a friend about a black BMW on my driveway. We had rented a Ford Transit and bought cardboard boxes and been ready to go when we got the expected message.

Lex had taken many pictures during the debacle at my house; some of them were very good. He was even a very skilled "Photoshop" user and couldn't resist the temptation to fix Albertson's penis to a very tiny size in the pictures. I sent Anna-Lena a color picture in A4 size of her and Albertson naked in the bed after I dragged away the comforter. I wrote on the backside, "Hopefully this picture of you and the man in your dreams can replace the wedding picture I never got a chance to get taken and give you." 

I have never pretended to be a nice guy and jolly good fellow because it's okay for me to be an average man with some shortcomings and some advantages. A short time after my debacle with Albertson I managed to hear the whispers behind my back that said, "There goes the wimp who got his girlfriend fucked by Ass-Hole-Albertson."

The rumors say that my friends had felt sorry for me, worried for my health and had decided that Albertson needed a real lesson. Obviously they knew that most color printer leaves a small invisible ID on the picture and can be traced so some of them bought a stolen printer during his visit at the capital. Then some of them had written and printed a leaflet with a picture of Albertson naked in the snow with Albertson's Accounting Company's logotype with phone and fax numbers.

Over the picture was a text, "New Extended Service!"

Under the picture they had written:

"As a real Nordic Viking I proudly want to announce that I will be serving your female employees with all kind of male escort service for personal pleasures. References on request."

Of course, while making those leaflets they had never worked without rubber gloves or licked any stamps. When the printing was ready, the USB drive and the printer was to be dumped in one of the old water filled deep mining pits in the forest.

Exactly as the authors had planned he leaflet caused the expected attention and consequences. Albertson went to the police and accused me. His lawyer sued me for libeling Albertson and I sued Albertson for accusing me. Both Anna-Lena and her father rang me; she only cried and he threatened to beat me. Several of my friends and even several of my customers accused me of spreading it. Though I denied all knowledge of that leaflet, even one of my best friends told me I had gone too far in my vendetta with Albertson and cancelled our monthly chess games. 

A policeman rang and asked me if I knew anything about the "Albertson leaflet" and I told them the truth that I had got one by mail to my company but I had no female employees who could been interested in his services, so I had thrown it in the waste basket. 

The rumors in town said that Albertson had been furious and thrown things at his office when he had got a letter from the police that had said, "Your cause is removed from the cause list because any conclusive evidence of crime is not found." 

He complained to the Parliamentary Commissioner for the Judiciary and Civil Administration, who only had replied with a short standard letter that no valid reason for a complaint was found. Once again Albertson had been loudly screaming and swearing about our legal system. 

The gossip said that Albertson had sworn to pay back with interest, so I had hired a security company for keep an eye on my properties and one of their night patrols had succeeded in catching a man throwing a stone in a window. That fit me perfectly because the man was one of Albertson's employees. 

Then Anna-Lena found out that she was pregnant and decided to keep the baby probably in some kind of hope that I would take her back. I didn't and refused to sign any papers or pay anything at all before a DNA test. When the authorities tried to push me into agreeing to be the father I told them they better ask Albertson, who had intercourse with her after me.

While my vengeance with Albertson went on as planned, I wasn't very successful with women for the time being. At my age of 32, the number of available single women in the right ages was a bit limited in my small Scandinavian town. The main disadvantage in a small town is that everyone knows everybody and their backgrounds. It is not funny to be together with a girl when knowing all about her background and if she's been an easy lay in her younger days.

I did like many others, tried my luck on the web. My first three dates were real fiascos in different ways. The worst one was 38 but had used a photo, which was at least ten years old. One another was married and demanded that her husband be allowed to watch if we had sex next time we met. We didn't do that because there was no next time. The third was very handsome, indeed, a 26 year old redhead but she had too many problems, obviously many of them economic, which she expected me to solve. I didn't.

Then I met Nina. She was great in many ways except one big problem: she had a weird dog, which was the main reason for her boyfriend dumping her. I like dogs and had never had any problem with any dog until I met Nina and her dog. I really did my best to befriend that animal but without any hint of success and as she refused to get rid of it, we gave up our attempts to be a couple and I had to confess that the dog was the winner. When Albertson heard about Nina, her dog and me, he sent her a dog collar and a message saying that it would be useful now when she had two mad dogs.

To my great surprise Albertson's ex-wife Catharine rang me about the Marina Club's annual spring ball and asked me if I had a lady or if I could escort her. A membership in the Marina Club is both more difficult to get and more expensive than a membership in the local golf club. The simple reason is that there are no exact limits for the number of members in a golf club but in the marina club the number of members were limited to the number of spaces for their boats.

During a short meeting Albertson's ex and I agreed to go together to the ball but without any further intentions. 

The simple reason why I once had not voted for Albertson as chairman was that before he was elected he had accepted bribes for giving memberships to some of his cohorts though the waiting list for a membership was several years. 

Exactly as expected, the ball was a great event with many photos in our local newspaper. One big color photo of Catharine and me outside the ballroom caused much gossip in town. Ass-Hole-Albertson wasn't looking very happy when he found out whom I was escorting. 

One sunny day something happened that gave us local single men a great challenge. Erica Peterson, a very beautiful easygoing 28 year old nurse, who had been living in the country capital since she went to the nurse school ten years ago, had gotten a job, met her husband and settled down there. 

Her happiness had lasted until the day when she had forgot something at home and went there and found her husband fucking his 22 year old secretary in their marital bed. She divorced him and now she was back in our town again with her two year old son.

Her brother and I had been classmates at the school so I knew him rather well and when Erica and her brother met me at the supermarket's cafeteria we had a pleasant small talk. Erica's brother joked that we two divorcees ought to have a date. I replied that it was a good idea and suggested to Erica that Saturday we take a trip to a big zoo park together with her little boy.

She told me that she was busy elsewhere that weekend but would be happy to go with me the next Saturday. We even decided to meet Wednesday evening to talk about the trip.

I really looked forward to meeting Erica and we met at a café just as we had agreed. Everything was fine until she told me what she had done during the last weekend. She had seen a musical at our capital, had a dinner at one of the best restaurants there and spent the night at Sheraton.


Vendetta



 Vielen Dank an meinen besten Freund, der mir einen Einblick ins männliche Gehirn gegeben hat (oder zumindest in seins) und wohl niemals erfahren wird, dass ich die Informationen in so einem Forum verarbeite...

*

„Sieh dir das doch mal an. Das ist dämlich.“ Betty verschränkte die Arme unter der Brust und drückt so ungewollt ihre Brüste zu einem schönen Spalt zusammen.

Man hat mir mal gesagt, dass Männer auf Titten stehen, bzw. auf diesen Schlitz des Dekoltées, weil sie genauso aussehen, wie die Ritze der die Arschbacken trennt.

Noch aus Urzeiten kommt der Drang hinzusehen, als wir noch alle kriechende Orang-Utans waren und Hintern und die darunter verborgene Falte der Lust mit Sex gleich gesetzt haben.

Vielleicht. 

Wer würde es abstreiten? Am wenigsten wohl die Arschfickfetischisten.

Trotzdem denke ich nicht zwangsläufig an Sex, wenn ich Titten sehe. Und ich denke auch nicht: Geil! Das sieht aus wie eine Arschspalte!

Ich denke dann meist einfach nur: Mhm...

Wie Homer Simpsons, wenn er einen Donought entdeckt. Oder einen Hamburger. Oder Fensterkitt.

Ich richte mein Augenmerk wieder auf den Bildschirm meines Fernsehers. Ich kann ihr nicht ganz folgen.

„Warum?“, frage ich deshalb und bereue es sofort. Sie würde es mir jetzt sagen warum, und ich würde auf die Fehler und Schwächen der Dialoge der Protagonisten des Films achten; ich würde die Makel im Plot finden, die Fehlfarben, die Mängel der Kleidung.

Doch genau das wollte ich nicht. Ich wollte einfach den Film sehen... ohne zu  denken . Zumindest nicht im eigentlichen Sinne.

Warum?

Wahrscheinlich ist es schon klar, ich sag es aber trotzdem, für die Schnellchecker unter uns: Ich sehe gerade einen Porno. Keinen harten, aber auch keinen Erotikfilm von VOX oder KABEL 1. Einfach einen netten Porno. Mit einen Mann und einer Frau.

Es ist der erste, den ich mir jemals gekauft habe und ich sehe ihn mir heute noch gerne an, wie ich gerade feststelle.

„Keine Frau würde ernsthaft ‚ja, ficke mich! Spritz in mich rein!'  brüllen.“, sagt Betty und macht eine Geste, als läge das was sie sagt, doch eindeutig auf der Hand.

„Tatsächlich?“, frage ich gedehnt und ziehe das Wort in die Länge.

Sie lächelt plötzlich, als habe ich einen Scherz gemacht. Ich kann mich nicht daran erinnern, witzig gewesen zu sein.

Stattdessen kommen in mir die Erinnerungen hoch an die paar Frauen, denen ich diese Ausbrüche habe entlocken können. Nicht alle. Aber doch hier und da, hatten ein paar sich gehen lassen und das gesagt. Unter anderem, versteht sich.

Jetzt muss auch ich grinsen.

Sie sieht das und dreht sich skeptisch zu mir um. „Du lächelst, als wüsstest du was, was ich nicht weiß.“

Ich bin nicht so dämlich zu sagen, woran ich gerade gedacht habe. Nämlich an Sex mit anderen Frauen. Egal, was Frauen über die Ehrlichkeit eines Mannes sagen: Die Wahrheit wollen sie nur wohl dosiert. Das ist Fakt.

„Ich weiß auch was, was du nicht weißt: Du bist wunderschön in diesem Oberteil.“

Sie strahlt mich an, dreht sich dann wieder zum Fernseher. 

Ich hatte ein bisschen mehr erwartet, schließlich flimmerten in Hintergrund die Bilder von sehr tüchtigen, sehr nackten Stars ihrer Branche und ich hatte gerade einen Streit abgewendet, der die Wände meiner Wohnung zum Zittern gebracht hätte. Oder es abgewendet, dass sie einfach geht. Schließlich sind wir nicht zusammen. Ein Streit wäre sogar ziemlich seltsam in dieser Situation.

Naja, vielleicht später.

Den Sex, nicht die Beziehung, meine ich.

Ich hab Schlagsahne im Kühlschrank, fällt mir gerade ein.

Sie wendet sich wieder dem Bildschirm zu und verschränkt wieder kritisch die Arme. Ihre hübsche Stirn legt sich in Falten.

Warum hat sie überhaupt vorgeschlagen, diesen Film zu kucken, wenn sie doch nur vorhat ihn schlecht zu machen? Ich dachte eigentlich, dass dieses Filmchen eine nette Vorlage für eigene Spielereien werden würde. 

Denkste...

Sie hebt schon wieder zur nächsten Attacke an. 

Ich wappne mich innerlich.

„Wow“, sagt sie bloß, dreht den Kopf leicht zur Seite, wie die Leute in der Bibliothek, wenn sie versuchen die Titel auf den Buchrücken zu lesen. „Die ist ganz schön gelenkig.“, stellt sie fest und gibt ihre kritische Haltung auf, um interessiert und ehrfürchtig der... nennen wir es einfach „Handlung zu folgen“.

Ich sehe der Frau auf dem Bildschirm zu. Sie hat die Beine bis hinter ihren Kopf geworfen, während der Mann gleichmäßig und schnell in sie hineinhämmert. Bein nächsten Schnitt, wo ihre gefüllte Öffnung nun in Großformat zu bestaunen ist, fällt mir auf, dass ihr Bauch - zuvor noch schweißnass - völlig trocken ist.

Ich wende meinen Blick wieder zu Bettina auf eine Bemerkung wartend. Vorhin hatte sie sich mächtig darüber echauffiert, dass in einer Szene noch ein Kabel am Boden zu sehen war, in der nächsten Sequenz aber nicht mehr.

Ich hatte für diese Feststellung drei Mal zurückspulen müssen. Ich werde die Szene wohl jetzt immer mit anderen Augen sehen.

Was Frauen trotz des Anblicks nackter Ärsche und Titten noch so auffällt - ich meine, welcher Mann bemerkt den  Boden  bei  irgendeinem Film. Außer natürlich man macht das berufsbedingt, als ... keine Ahnung. Was für Menschen suchen denn Fehler in Filmen? 

„Hallo, mein Name ist soundso und ich bin Filmfehlersucher...“

Ich sehe den Typen soundso buchstäblich vor mir: Auf einer gepflegten Dinnerparty, Anzug, Zigarre, Bourbone in der Hand, ein blasiert-einfältiges Grinsen im fleischigen Gesicht...

Verdammt! Wie bin ich denn jetzt zu dem Gedanken gekommen? Heilige Scheiße! Ich sehe gerade einen Porno mit der Freundin meiner Schwester, die mir beim Ausmisten meines --eigentlich -- Trainingszimmers geholfen hat und ich vielleicht, vielleicht landen könnte und denke an... Schrott.

Nicht das der Porno niveauvoller wäre, aber...

Ach fuck.

Mir fällt auf, dass sie gar nichts gesagt hat.

„Meinst du...“, beginnt sie auch schon wieder.

Ich unterdrücke ein Stöhnen. Es gelingt mir halb.

Sie sieht immer noch auf den Bildschirm, die Augen mittlerweile glasig. „Meinst du... ich meine, vom männlichen Standpunkt aus betrachtet... das fühlt sich gut an?“

Die Frau im Porno hat mittlerweile die Hündchenstellung eingenommen.

Ich will nicht angeben, aber irgendwie hatte ich angenommen, dass diese Stellung zum allgemeinen Repertoire gehört. Wahrscheinlich meint sie die Stellung von eben.

„So hockend?“, präzisiert sie es aber, bevor ich antworten kann.

Ich setze an. Stocke.

Urplötzlich dreht sie sich zu mir um. Wird das erste Mal rot, seit ich den Film eingeschoben habe. Wird dann sogar lila. „Also nicht, dass ich das nicht wüsste und so...“, versucht sie abzuwinken. Mit lila Birne. „Ich weiß das nämlich schon. Aber so... was meinst du? So als Mann...“, druckst sie herum.

Herrlich.

Ich verkneife mir ein Lächeln. Es gelingt mir halb.

Ich hab noch nie einen Menschen gesehen, der so schlecht lügen kann. So stümperhaft und einfach... niedlich.

Ich wusste gar nicht, dass „niedlich“ zu meinem imaginären Wörterbuch zählt. Doch Gentleman wie ich es einer bin, hake ich nicht weiter nach, sondern genieße die Vorstellung mit einer ziemlich unschuldigen Frau einen Porno zu sehen.

Schließlich seufzt sie neben mir. „Sag's nicht weiter.“, zischt sie.

„Was?“, frage ich blöd. Das mit der Hündchenstellung? Wer würde sich dafür interessieren? - Außer natürlich die Region rund um meine Hüfte. Und diese Region bei jedem anderen Mann, den ich kenne.

In mir reift die Fantasie heran, wie ich sie langsam in die etwas unorthodoxeren Wege der Sexualität einführe. Wenn sie schon nicht die Hündchenstellung kennt, ist ihr Oralverkehr dann auch fremd? Oder Analsex? Oder Sex im Freien? Oder mit einer anderen Frau?

Bilder schießen durch meinen Kopf und ich bemerke erst wieder, dass sie mit mir redet, als ich die Bewegung ihrer Lippen sehe.

„...Deine Schwester ist da auch nicht anders. Alle reagieren, als hätte ich was falsch gemacht, wenn ich's sage. Dabei war das nicht mal eine bewusste Entscheidung. Es ist einfach nicht passiert. Und von mir aus wollte ich keinen Kerl ansprechen... ich meine, jede Frau will wenigstens bei ihrem ersten Mal umworben werden, oder? Und dann war ich plötzlich zweiundzwanzig und keiner war mehr wie ich und alle... also diese mitleidigen Blicke... aber mit vierundzwanzig war es dann einfach kein Thema mehr, über das man sich unterhielt. Und ich hab's einfach nicht gesagt, weil ich mir komisch vorkam. Alle haben es einfach angenommen und ich wollte es nicht bestreiten und dann reihte sich die erste Lüge an die nächste und jetzt bin ich achtundzwanzig und werde sterben...“ Sie schluchzt.

Mir dröhnt noch das „wenigstens beim ersten Mal“ in den Ohren, als ich merke, wie sie sich vom Sofa erhebt.

Es ist keine bewusste Entscheidung gewesen, aber plötzlich stehe ich auch schon neben ihr und nehme sie in den Arm. Sie wirft sich förmlich hinein.

„Ich werde sterben...“

Ein klitzekleines bisschen, minimal, vielleicht ein winziges Stückchen, unmerklich, ja fast kaum wahrnehmbar ist sie melodramatisch, oder sehe ich das falsch?

„Sterben!“

Unmerklich melodramatisch. Wirklich nur einen Hauch.

Sie fasst nach meinen Händen, die ungeschickt auf ihrem Rücken gelandet sind und presst sie auf ihre Brüste. „Zuerst werden die eintrocknen, ohne, dass je jemand sie zu Gesicht bekommt. Und dann mein ganzer Körper...“

Sie weint, glaub ich, aber ihr ins Gesicht sehen, kann ich weiß Gott nicht. Das übersteigt meine menschenmöglichen Mittel. Ich habe gerade Brüste in der Hand, die Gott aus Rache an den Wonderbra erschaffen haben muss. Damit jeder denkt, sie wären Fake, aber nein... sie sind echt, und weich und fest und stehen wie eine Eins. Ihre Nippel sind zwar nicht steif, aber heilige Scheiße, als ich sie mit den Daumen ertaste, richten sie sich sofort auf und drücken durch ihr Oberteil, als wollen sie heraushüpfen. Direkt in meinen Mund.

Kommt zu Daddy...

Sie trägt keinen BH, fällt mir ein wenig weggetreten auf. Keine Träger auf den nackten Schultern. Kein Stoff außer ihrem Oberteil zwischen meinen Händen und diesen einmaligen Dingern.

Ich taste es hektisch ab, all dieses Fleisch, das meine ganzen Hände füllt. Es ist so wundervoll und ich kriege Panik, dass sie wieder zur Besinnung kommt. Mein Gegrabsche wird noch schneller, bis ich merke, dass es ihr wehtun muss.

Mit gigantischer Kraft hebe ich meinen Blick in ihr Gesicht.

Sie hat die Lider über ihre glasigen, leicht roten Augen geschlossen, die Lippen leicht geöffnet, dass ich die rötlich, feuchte Linie der Innenseite ihrer Unterlippe sehen kann.

Wie ihr Mund wohl schmeckt?

Ich probiere es aus, erwarte eine keusche, zurückhaltende Begegnung von meiner Zunge und ihrer und zucke unter dem Schwall der Lust zusammen, als sie mich küsst, als hätte sie eine Meisterprüfung darin abgelegt. Wer sie wohl geprüft hat...?

Ich habe dem wenig entgegenzusetzen und genieße das heiße Spiel ihrer Zähne, Zunge und Lippen, bis ich mich von ihr lösen muss, weil der Reißverschluss meiner Jeans erheblich meinen besten Freund einzwickt. Ich rücke von ihr ab, ziehe am Stoff der Hose, um meinem Schwanz mehr Platz zu machen.

Sie fasst es offensichtlich als Hinweis auf, mich dort zu berühren, denn schon umfasst sie meinen Schwanz durch den beengenden, zwickenden Stoff hindurch und reibt ihn langsam.

„Gut?“, fragt sie, ebenso weggetreten wie ich.

Ich nehme wieder ihre Brüste in die Hand, die ich wegen meines Reißverschlusses kurz gelöst habe, wiege sie, spiele mit den Nippeln. Könnte ich ewig machen...

„Hmm...“, mache ich. Es soll ein Laut der Zustimmung sein, doch sie merkt wohl, dass der Stoff nicht allzu bequem an meiner Haut reibt, deshalb zieht sie ihre Hand weg. Sie nimmt ihre andere Hand zur Hilfe, taucht leicht in den vorderen Bund meiner Hose ein und versucht den Knopf zu lösen. 

Sie merkt es vielleicht nicht, ich aber umso intensiver, als ihre Fingerspitzen die Kuppe meines Schafts streifen.

Ich stöhne lang und laut.

Sie kriegt den Knopf zu fassen, drückt ihn mit dem Daumen durch die Öse und endlich habe ich Platz, besonders, als sie auch noch den Reißverschluss runterzieht. Mein Schwanz springt ihr entgegen wie ein gieriger Räuber, sucht ihre Aufmerksamkeit. Sie nimmt sich ihm an, umfasst ihn ganz vorsichtig und leicht. Versucht ihn zu wichsen.

Mein Schwanz ist so steif, dass ich ihre Berührung kaum wahrnehme, vielleicht ist sie auch nur zu zaghaft. „Fester.“, bemühe ich deshalb ihr mitzuteilen.

Sie hat mich wohl gehört und verstanden, drückt nun fester zu, reibt ihn kräftig.

Gut. So gut...

„Ja.“ Lang gezogen. Stöhnend.

Ich merke, dass ich ihre Brüste nur noch halte, ohne sie zu massieren, oder zu begrabschen, oder sonst was. Ich senke meine Hände zum Saum ihres Oberteils, ziehe an dem Stoff. 

Sie nimmt die Hände von meinem Schwanz - das habe ich nicht bedacht - und hebt sie über ihren Kopf - achso - um mir das Ausziehen zu erleichtern. 

Dann landen ihre kleinen, zierlichen Hände wieder da, wo sie verdammt noch mal hingehören, während ich ihre nackten Brüste hypnotisiert anstarre.

Sie war immer die am besten „Bestückte“ aus dem Freundeskreis meiner Schwester und ich hatte mir oft ihre Brüste vorgestellt, aber meist ist Fantasie und Wirklichkeit in etwa so nah beieinander, wie der nächste Zigarettenautomat von meinem Bett, wenn ich an einem verkaterten Morgen unbedingt eine brauche. In meiner Fantasie hatte sie immer perfekte, makellose Brüste mit kleinen, roten Nippeln, die sich mir entgegenrecken.

Ja, die Fantasie spielt einem üble Streiche.

Ihre Nippel waren nicht rot, sondern bräunlich.

Hingerissen, wahrscheinlich wie der letzte Depp vor mich hin grinsend, stehe ich da, ihre Hände an meinem Schwanz, in meinen Händen immer noch den Stoff ihres Oberteils und kucke nur.

„Was ist?“, fragt sie unsicher.

Nichts. Alles.

Ich beuge meinen Kopf zu ihr herunter und küsse sie wieder. Als unsere Zungen wieder Loopings schlagen, lasse das Oberteil fallen, mache ich auch ihre Hose auf, ziehe sie so weit es geht runter, ohne mich zu weit zu beugen. Denn das hätte bedeutet, dass ihre Finger meinen Schwanz verließen. Und so wichst, massiert und knetet sie fein weiter, hüpft ein wenig rum, um ihre Hose von den Knien rutschen zu lassen.

Endlich trägt sie nur noch dieses schwarze Stückchen Stoff, das Frauen als Unterwäsche bezeichnen, das ich ebenso hastig und ungelenk bis zur Mitte ihrer Oberschenkel runterziehe. Auch daraus kann sie sich - weiß der Himmel wie - auch befreien und meine Hand landet klatschend auf ihrem Unterbauch, sich den Weg bahnend zu diesen herrlich weichen, leicht krausen Locken ihrer Scham. Ich finde sie, fühle sie zwischen den Fingerspitzen, bevor ich meinen Mittelfinger zwischen die cremigfeuchten - sie ist schon feucht! - Lippen schiebe und ihren Lustknopf suche. 

Sie hört ganz mit der Masturbation meines Schwanzes auf. Viel zu gefangengenommen von den Emotionen, die ich so mühelos in ihr entfache.

Das stört mich nicht. Um ehrlich zu sein, hätte sie schon aufhören müssen, als die ersten Tropfen meines Vorsamens in ihrer Hand gelandet sind. Endlich Zeit zum Durchatmen, zum Klarkommen, zum Beobachten.

Ich knete sanft, aber unerbittlich ihre Klitoris und atme tief durch. Erst jetzt fällt mir auf, wie das Blut in meinen Adern rauscht, wie es in meinen Ohren dröhnt, wie knapp ich eigentlich davor gewesen war, einfach in ihre Hand zu kommen. Ich merkte plötzlich das unverkennbare, scharfe Ziehen in meinen Lenden, in meinem Bauch. Meine Bauchmuskeln haben sich zu brettharten Wölbungen zusammengezogen. Ich atme nur in tiefen abgehackten Zügen.

Plötzlich knickt sie zusammen und ich habe Mühe sie zu halten. Vorsichtig versuche ich sie zu Boden gleiten zu lassen, kann aber einen Aufprall nicht verhindern. Oder dass ich auf sie falle. Doch bevor sie wieder zur Besinnung kommen und die ganze Geschichte einfach abblasen könnte, habe ich meine Finger wieder an ihrer empfindlichsten Stelle, öffne ihre Schenkel und lasse meinen ersten Finger in sie hineingleiten. Wie in Butter. In Rahm. In Sahne. Ich ziehe ihn zurück.

Sie stöhnt kehlig, spreizt ihre Beine noch weiter, bis ich einen ungetrübten Blick auf ihre Vulva habe. Ihre Klitoris ist so tief durchblutet, dass sie lila schimmert zwischen ihren hellen, rötlichen Schamlippen, knapp oberhalb des senkrechten Schlitzes, die ihre geheimste Öffnung verdeckt. Ich richte mich auf meine Knie auf, und ziehe mit meinen Zeigefinger den Schlitz auseinander. Rotschimmernde Dunkelheit wird sichtbar. Wunderschön, verlockend, flüssig.

Ich lasse wieder meinen Finger meiner anderen Hand hineingleiten. Sie verschluckt ihn ganz. Ich rechne nicht damit, dass das Häutchen noch intakt ist, das ihre Jungfräulichkeit symbolisiert. Sie benutzt sicher Tampons, oder macht Sport... Irgendwas, was dies zerstören würde, bei so einer alten - trotz ihrer jungen Jahre - Jungfrau. Ich rechne wirklich nicht damit. Deshalb erstarre ich einfach, als ich es spüre. Da ist sie, die Barriere. 

Oh Gott.

„...weiter... nicht...nicht auf... aufhören!...“, keucht sie, unter mir liegend, sich windend, erregt bis in die Fingerspitzen.

Das habe ich auch nicht vor. 

Sie zerrt an meinen Haaren, umfasst meine Schultern. „Ausziehen!“, fordert sie mit rauer Stimme.

Was? 

Sie zerrt an meinem T-Shirt, zieht es mir halb über den Kopf, bis ich mich von ihr löse und es abstreife. Das meinte sie. Ich hatte es völlig vergessen. Danach hab ich keine Chance mehr, mich meinen Entdeckungen und Spielereien weiter zu widmen. Sie packt einfach meine Hüfte, zieht mich auf sie, bis ich an meinem Schwanz ihre heiße Nässe spüre.

Hm.

Überredet.

Ich umfasse meinen Schwanz, versuche ihn an ihre enge, enge - hab ich schon „eng“ gesagt? - Öffnung zu platzieren, um zuzustoßen. Sie ist feucht genug, um mich einfach in sich aufzunehmen. Dennoch gleite ich nur langsam hinein. Zuerst die Spitze meines Schwanzes, dann das erste Drittel. Das zweite. Mit ein bisschen mehr Druck rutscht auch das letzte Stück in sie hinein.

Ich stöhne, tief aus der Kehle, aus dem Bauch, aus den Zehenspitzen.

Sie ächzt. Auch tief, aber nicht aus dem gleichen, wohligen Gefühl heraus.

Ihre Stirn ist gerunzelt, ihre Augen wegen des Schmerzes zusammengekniffen.

Ich versuche es zu vermeiden, mich zu bewegen; versuche zu verharren, versuche es wirklich.

Ich bin auch nur ein Mann, und als sie nicht rumschreit, mich auffordert zu verschwinden, aus ihr zu verschwinden, mache ich weiter.

Ich ziehe mich aus ihr zurück, dringe wieder ein. Ein, zwei leichte, vorsichtige Stöße, dann platzt in mir auch die letzte Zurückhaltung. Ich hämmere vor, spüre ihre Enge, wie sie sich dehnt, wie in ihr ihre Nässe mit meinem Schwanz zusammenmatscht. Höre die Geräusche ihres, meines rasselnden Atems. Die unzusammenhängenden Laute aus ihrem Mund. Den Klang unserer Leiber, wie sie sich treffen, vom Schweiß zusammenkleben, auseinander gehen.

Ich sehe an uns herunter, sehe, wie mein Schwanz feucht von ihren Säften glänzend in sie hineinfährt. Hinaus bis zum Rand meiner Eichel. Rein. Schneller, tiefer, rasender, heißer, feuchter.

Ihr Bauch ist nass, schweißüberströmt. Kein Schnitt. Keine Trockenheit, nur glühender Tau auf ihrer Haut, in ihr.

Ich spüre ihren Muttermund an meiner Schwanzkuppel, spüre, wie sie jedes Mal zusammenzuckt, wenn ich erneut dieses Gefühl in ihr suche. Egal, ob es ihr weh tut. Egal,  dass  es ihr weh tut. Sie hechelt jetzt unter mir, ihre Augen geschlossen. Sie kommt gleich. Gleich...

Sie kommt. Bäumt sich auf, windet sich, sucht mit ihrer Hüfte meinen Schwanz, biegt sich mir entgegen, stöhnt, schreit...

„Ja... fick mich... steck ihn rein... spitz mich voll...“

Zwei Sachen fallen mir im Delirium der Lust auf. Sie sagt  die  Worte. Und sie sagt  sinnvolle  Worte in ihrem Gipfelsturm. 




Vendetta



I asked, "Who was the happy guy?"

She replied, "Samuel Albertson. Is he a friend of yours?"

What could I say? Off all available single men she had choose to date the worst creep, Ass-Hole-Albertson, who had really done his best to impress on her. The musical had been sold out for many months, so the tickets must cost him a fortune on the black market. Though my own date now sounded like a cheap budget alternative compared to his I decided to continue my own race as planned and not care about Albertson, so I replied, "I know him rather well but wouldn't be honest if I called him a friend."

She didn't ask me more about him and I doubted it would be of any advantage for me to say anything negative about him at that moment. Instead we talked about our trip. 

Both Erica and her son Elliot were in a good mood on Saturday morning when I did catch them at her parents' house. Erica must have told him about the animals because he talked a lot about them during the drive to the zoo park. During our walk around the park we had a coffee break at a café where we got a table next to a couple with a boy the same age as Elliott and they began to play and had fun together. 

When we walked into the restaurant for lunch the family we met at the café was already sitting there and waved us to their table. We joined them and now even we adults began talking with each other. 

Most visitors walked thru the large park via a suggested path and the Svenssons and we decided to walk together thru the remaining area we hadn't seen yet. The small boys had fun together. 

During our walk Anna Svensson told Erica that they were living in a small village without any other small boys in their son's age. Then she asked Erica, "Anders and I would be glad if you, your husband and Elliot could come to see us during a weekend so the kids can play together. We have a small guesthouse on the lawn near our house." 

Erica's reply caused confused looks in their faces when she replied, "I regret to say that my husband and I have filed for divorce and can't do anything together for the time being. My friend Michael here is not involved in my divorce; my husband caused it and had his secretary to assist him." 

Anna replied with a laugh, "I thought you and Michael were newlyweds, you look so happy together."

I said, "I can only hope that we will be that some day."

Anders said, "I'm sure Erica won't say no thanks to a nice guy like you. What about the weekend Anna suggested?"

It would be perfect for me so I replied, "It would be a great pleasure. What do you say, Erica?"

She smiled and said "Many thanks for your kind invitation. Of course we will accept it." (Wow! One date and she's ready to jump into bed with him? That seems awfully quick!)

One more weekend booked with Erica. The family theme was okay for me. During our drive back we agreed that Anna, Anders and Emil were a nice family and both of us expected it to be a pleasant weekend. Then Erica told me that Samuel had invited her to go with him to Manchester in England to see a football (soccer) match with Manchester United and for some shopping and she had accepted. Albertson and some friends of his had rented a private plane because one of his friends who had the flight-certificate needed flight time. I didn't comment on that.

Ass-Hole-Albertson didn't save any efforts to outshine me in this competition, which would not be difficult even with their second date. Of course, what was a barbeque with friends and a night in small guest-house at a small village compared with a flight in a private plane to England and a high-class hotel there. Albertson was sure that he could impress Erica and win her with his expensive dates but I'm thinking that she feels much more comfortable together with Elliot, our new friends and me. 

When we planned our date, Erica and I even agreed to have dinner at my house when we were back in our hometown. I had prepared most of the food in advance and did the rest of the cooking while Erica got Elliot ready for the night.

The dinner was rather romantic with good wine, candlelight and soft music. We talked of many things, except Albertson, until Erica said, "I hope you will understand that sex is out of question for me until my divorce is final. Samuel and I had a little quarrel about it when I refused to share a room with him during the last weekend, but I'm sure he knows better for our next date."

"I understand."

"I'm sure you do. It was so sweet of you to tell Anna that you wanted to be newlywed with me."

"That's true. There's something very special about you."

"I'm only a divorcee with a kid?" "Elliot is a great kid and he has a great mom. I really like both of you. Your ex must have been crazy when he messed up with you."

"Elliot likes you too. I'm glad for that."

"Glad to hear that and I would be twice as glad if even his pretty mom would like me. "

"Of course I do, very much indeed."

After some further talking about other subjects she asked, "Why did you and Anna-Lena split up?"

"I caught her cheating."

"Any plans to forgive her?"

"No, it was too humiliating. She did it after we had been talking about wedding, honeymoon in Hawaii and children."

"Why Hawaii? It sounds exotic."

"Not only Hawaii, we even talked about Las Vegas, Grand Canyon and California coast road because both of us wanted to go there. Now it is written in the stars if somebody wants to marry me and if she is interested in that trip."

Now she gave me a bright smile, laughed and said, "I would like go to Hawaii."

"Marry me and we are on the road."

She continued laughing and said, "It's a temptation but I'm already married for the time being."

She slept in my spare room and during breakfast we decided to spend even the Sunday together at my house. It was a pleasant day; we played with Elliot, went out for lunch and took a long walk.

We had no date booked during the next week. Erica had a date with Albertson on Tuesday and then they would fly to Manchester on Saturday morning and be back home on Sunday. Therefore I had a real surprise when she rang my doorbell about eight o clock on Tuesday evening.

It wasn't difficult to see that she was very angry for some reason. I asked her to come in and she sat down at the kitchen table and told me, "I have some questions for you and want to hear the truth. Lie to me and you can forget me."

"What's the matter? I've been honest with you so far and of course I'll continue to tell you the truth."

"Samuel says that you use to call him Ass-Hole-Albertson behind his back and now even several other people have began to using that awful nickname. Is that true?"

"No, of course not. That's not a nickname because Ass-Hole-Albertson fits perfectly on that creep. Of course many others and I are using it in front of him. Did he tell you where and why he got that name?"

"He says that you are calling him that because you envy him and hate him."

"Of course I hate him, I hate him very much, indeed. But I will never envy him. Did he really send you here to complain about his damn name? Do you want to know the truth?"

Erica hesitated for a while before replying, "No, he begged me not to do that, which I promised him. But I was so angry and disappointed about you that I couldn't resist finding the truth already this evening. Do you really think you can win my love with such dirty slander? I didn't expect you to be on such low level."

"My dear Erica, the truth is that I have avoided saying anything negative to you about your dear friend Albertson. Haven't I? The truth is that there was no need for me to do that because a clever woman like you would, sooner or later, hopefully sooner find out what a creep that man really is."

"If you have anything to say about Samuel, I want to hear it here and now and only the truth."

"There is no need for me to tell you any lies about Ass-Hole-Albertson because the truth is bad enough. Please let me tell you the whole story before you dump me. Can you promise me that?"

"Yes, I'll do my best. Go on."

"There is no doubt that Albertson is the best tax expert and accountant in this town and that he has great social skills. But I have a fair reason to hate that man. My first quarrel with him was when I stopped him from becoming the chairman of the Marina Club because I knew he had already accepted bribes to let his friends sneak past the long waiting list for membership. He swore to pay me back with interest."

I continued, "Of course he managed to do that. As a rich, generous, verbal and good looking guy he is probably the most successful pussy hound in this town with several divorces, even his own, on his personal record. He got his chance when the company hired him where my ex-common law wife Anna-Lena works and he assisted her with their new accounting system. He began courting her, first in rather innocent ways and then slowly increased his efforts when he noted her responses. Of course, I did my best to warn her of Albertson and the consequences she would get of letting him go too far with her."

"But I neither wanted nor could make any attempts to watch her at her job and, when I went skiing for the annual V75 players week in the mountains, he decided to use that great opportunity to get into her panties. But as usual he couldn't resist the temptation of bragging to his cohorts that his prey was ready to be laid and he would do that in her damn spouse's bed as soon as he had left for vacation. One of them told his wife, who told her sister and the gossip went on until even I knew their plans."

I went on with my story, "I decided that if she let that infamous pussy hound Ass-Hole-Albertson visit her in my house when I was away, she had lost my confidence and if I surprised them in action, she would be out. Due to very bad weather and traffic problems I came back home too late to catch them in action but I found both Anna-Lena and him sleeping naked in our bed."

Erica remained quite and I gave her the photo of Anna-Lena and Albertson naked in a bed before I continued, "That was the end for Anna-Lena's and my relationship and, as usual, Albertson didn't give a shit about Anna-Lena after I dumped her. By the way, his pet name or nickname Ass-Hole-Albertson comes from the license plate on his BMW, which begins with AHA and it was a member at the golf club who gave him that name after Albertson had caused a very tragic divorce for a nice couple there."

Looking her straight in the eyes I continued, "I wouldn't be surprised if Albertson even whined about me and his ex-wife Charlotte, since it is true that we went together to the Marina Club spring ball, but it was totally innocent and she asked me to escort her because the ball is for members and their spouses only and I don't have a spouse and she is not a member, so it was a simply a practical solution."

I said, "I have one more serious thing left to tell you about Anna-Lena, Albertson and me. She is pregnant and I believe that Albertson is the father, but it will be a case for DNA testing." 

Now I remained silent and Erica asked me, "Did you tell me the truth?"

"Yes, I told you the truth. If you don't believe me, ask people in town."

"Why haven't you told me anything before?"

"Because I hoped to have enough with my own advantages to win your love. That's why I chose to date you in simple ways, which gave us a fair chance to really know each other before we went further. Albertson preferred to date you in a different manner and it is up to you to decide whom you prefer over the other or if you don't like any of us after what I told you."

"I can tell you that I had much more fun during the date with you and I really look forward to the family weekend with Anna and Anders."

"So, I'm not dumped yet?"

"Obviously not. I really hope you didn't lie to me." 

"No, I didn't. By the way, you never told me why Albertson began whining about his pet name."

"We had tea and shrimp sandwiches at the small restaurant besides the bank when two couples came in there and one of the women almost yelled with a loud voice, "There is Ass-Hole-Albertson seducing some poor bastard's silly wife. Dear bitch, skip that damn asshole before it's too late for you." 

Erica said that several of the other guests had laughed loudly but Albertson had not dared to say a word before the couples were seated at the other end of the restaurant. Then he had begun to accuse me of creating his nickname and spreading nasty lies about him.

Erica left and to my surprise she was back at my house on Thursday and told me that she had asked lot of people about Albertson, even his ex-wife and all of them had confirmed what I had told her. Albertson had told her that the other guys had refused to take a woman with them on a football trip, so he cancelled their date and he hadn't been too sorry because he sold her seat in the plane and the match ticket for a high price to one of his friends. 

Erica told me that Elliot was with his dad that weekend and asked if she could spend the weekend with me at my house. Of course I agreed and even offered to take her to a nice hotel somewhere but Erica said she preferred a lazy weekend at home.

After a very romantic dinner on Friday evening we ended up necking. I got horny as hell and noted that even she was hot, very hot indeed. But she whispered in my ear that she intended to let the sex wait until she was divorced.

During all my adult life I have always remembered what an old man said to me when I was a boy, "Everything is possible if you try damn hard." I did my very best to keep her hot and after a long intensive kiss I whispered in her ear, "I love you and I'm dreaming about being your husband, but it's fair that we'll have some practice before our wedding night so everything will be perfect then."

Erica's reply took me with total surprise when she whispered, "I must agree to that."

Thereafter it was only a question of a few seconds before both of us were naked in my new bed. Of course, we didn't need any practice because the sex was great from the very beginning. I was convinced without any doubt that it was some of the very best sex I ever had taken any part of. Even Erica must have felt the same because she was totally wild until our dual orgasm and afterwards, as soon as she was back to normal breathing, she said, "You must marry me. You must do that. Promise me that. Do you?"

I proposed and she said, "Yes."

I was suspicious about how easy I had won against Albertson but expected him to keep a low profile until he sooner or later found some excuse to try again with increasing courting of Erica if we became a couple. 

Then I found the real reasons why Albertson gave up the competition about Erica. Her ex had been promoted to a real top job and wanted her back as one of the "Leading Ladies" in our county. No doubt that Albertson expected to get a good laugh at my expense when she left me. Especially now after he had managed to get a new gorgeous girlfriend, a lawyer who would work one year at the local law firm. She could be described as 9 points of 10 available.

However, Erica, Elliot and I had a very pleasant weekend together with Anna, Anders and their son Emil. Erica and I even got in some quickies while Elliot slept.

The next week was a difficult time for me because Erica was going to see her ex during the weekend and discuss the possibilities of canceling the ongoing divorce and go on with their marriage and give Elliot a fair chance to grow up with both of his real parents. I kept a low profile and told her that it was her own decision. 

Ass-Hole-Albertson had sent her a nice card wishing her and her husband good luck. But Erica said that she had sent it back to him with a comment that suggested he put it up in the place advised by his pet name. Obviously she didn't like him very much any longer, probably because he had dumped her when he cancelled their England date. 

Erica left early on Saturday morning. She gave me a hug and was gone, probably forever. I had a feeling that she really wanted to save her marriage, but I couldn't blame her. 

We had agreed that she wouldn't contact me before she was back again, either to collect her belongings or to stay forever with me. It was long sad day for me. My V75 friends shoved up after lunch so we could follow our gambling on one of the commercial TV-channels. Though we had all seven races right and won a fair amount, equal to around 23,000 in US$, I couldn't show any happiness at all, which made my friends seriously worried. They had seen me go further after a number of crushed relationships before, but never before seen me so wrecked, not even after my separation from Anna-Lena.

Lex said what all of us knew, "You really love this woman with all your heart."

I wasn't in any mood to go out celebrating, so we rang for Chinese food and stayed at my house. About ten o'clock in the evening all of us were really surprised when Erica came back with a big black eye. After she had told me that she intended keeping her part of our wedding plans and after she and I had hugged and kissed for several minutes she told us that it was her ex who had hit her.

After my friends had left us Erica told me everything about the meeting with her ex. When they met he had taken her on a tour of his new office and bragged about all included benefits. Then he had taken her to a big old house in one of the best-regarded expensive old areas with a nice view over the local lake. The house was for sale and the present owner had agreed to show it to them. Erica didn't like the old area because there were no other kids of Elliot's age. She even disliked the house; it was too big for their needs and even in need of much maintenance. When she had told her ex about her doubts he only said that she could work part-time and use the remaining time to assist the maintenance people. He had left an offer with the broker and if it were accepted, the house would be his.

Already his selfish choice of a house that Erica didn't want to live in had put her in very negative mood against the whole idea about forgiving him and continuing their marriage. When she asked him about the price and monthly expenses for it he had told her that it wouldn't cost her anything at all because he intended to keep it as a private investment.

After the house tour the ex had told her about his plans for the evening. He had rented a room and booked a dinner at the best hotel in town and suggested they go to the room for some rest before dinner. Erica had refused to do that and told him that she had an appointment with a friend. She hadn't but now she knew for sure that she didn't love him any longer and had no interest in any hotel-room sex before the dinner with him.

When they met for dinner he had immediately asked her if she had met a new man. 

She said, "Yes, I have and today I have been convinced that he is my love and there is no possibilities to repair our marriage because you and I have drifted too far apart. Let's be happy for all the good times we had together, part as friends and go forward in our new lives."

He hadn't agreed. Obviously he had been drinking too much before the dinner and now he showed his very bad temper and began to call her names in a loud voice. When she had left the table he had followed her to the parking lot where he hit her but was interrupted by a man who had seen it and rushed to her assistance.

Erica, Elliot and I had a good family life in my house. Her ex must have regretted his bad behavior very much because he gave her a fair settlement for their divorce and offered to let me adopt Elliot. Erica and he agreed about their divorce and then Erica, he and I met and all three of us agreed that Erica and Elliot living as a family with me would be the best solution for Elliot.




Vendetta



Epilog

Erica, Elliot and I were living together as a happy family. Albertson hadn't bothered us with any tricks since he met his handsome lawyer girlfriend. We had a typical small-town life until Anna-Lena gave birth to her baby boy. I refused to sign any papers and the DNA gave me the proof that I wasn't the father. Then we got the great surprise when rumors of Albertson's DNA test got out in town. The baby wasn't his. After a while the social welfare authorities got Anna-Lena to confess a short affair with a married fellow worker, whose wife took their two children and immediately left him.

To my great surprise Albertson's lawyer girlfriend invited me to lunch. She was a really classy and bright-minded lady. After some polite small talk she went straight to her errand and told me that she had cancelled Albertson's case against me, so it was up to me if I would drop my case against him, which I promised her to do.

Though she didn't expected Albertson and me to be friends, she wanted us to behave like adults and forget our silly vendetta. In her opinion I had gotten a fair revenge when Albertson had let me win the competition about Erica. I told her, "He aimed higher and I can hardly believe he feels like a loser."

She smiled and said, "Do you envy Samuel and want to change Erica for me?"

I replied with a smile, "I really admire you but must say 'No thanks' because I really love Erica." 

She promised me that Albertson would keep his mouth shut about Anna-Lena's baby. I had to agree with her that in some strange way he had done me a favor when Anna-Lena's earlier cheating was brought out to my knowledge. We parted with a hug and it was a great benefit for all of us to have put a stop to the vendetta between Albertson and me.

During a vacation at the Spanish island Gran Canaria together with our very good friends the Svensson family whom we met during our first date at the zoo, Erica and I married at the Scandinavian Church in San Agustin. After a number of failures I had gotten a loving wife.



Vendetta's Diary



Detective Frank Sturgess scratched his thick gray hair as he studied the report in his hand. He shook his head several times as he read it through. When he was finished, he added it to the mountain of papers strewn across his desktop and fished around until he found a small black cassette.

Sturgess thought he had seen everything in his eighteen years with the New York Police Department, rising from beat cop to homicide detective. The unsolved murder which occupied his attention that February morning had, at first, seemed no different than so many others: a single woman, Dr. Vendetta Frankenwiener, found strangled in her Greenwich Village apartment. No signs of forced entry or sexual assault. From the absence of cash and the state of the drawers and closets, robbery was the obvious motive. 

None of the neighbors had heard anything, or indeed knew anything about the victim, who had kept to herself. Occasionally they had seen strange men enter the apartment, although none had ever been seen leaving. The occupant of the apartment immediately downstairs, an elderly gentleman, claimed that he had heard screams and sobbing coming from above him on several occasions, but his hearing was poor and his memory was hazy.

The case might have gone cold on Sturgess’s desk has it not been for the chance discovery of the cassette in the detective’s hands. It had been found crammed between two sofa cushions by the crew hired by the building’s manager to clear out the apartment. At first, nobody had been able to figure out what it was, until a senior detective on the verge of retirement recognized it as a dictabelt tape. The machines capable of using it had gone the way of the rotary dial phone, but Sturgess had thought to look through the inventory of the evidence locker downstairs, and sure enough, an ancient dictabelt recording machine had been found.

The secretary assigned to transcribe the cassette tape had found it so disturbing that she had refused to listen to any more, and the report which Sturgess had just read comprised a verbatim transcript of the first four minutes of a thirty minute tape. The machine was on the floor beside his desk, and he decided that he needed some air before he listened to the rest.

It was a bit early for lunch, but Sturgess removed his jacket from the hook behind his door and headed out towards Foley Square. The transcript, laying open on his desk, began as follows:

“Water. Where am I?"

"Where no one will ever find you."

"What have you done to me?"

"Don't you remember the personal advertisement you responded to? Or coming to my apartment? Or the legal papers that you signed?"

"The advertisement in the paper. About the role reversal study."

"That’s right. Dear, sweet, innocent Pat. I have been looking for the perfect subject for a little experiment.”

"What do you mean?"

"The liquid you just drank contained a mild sedative. While it is taking effect, let me show you my progress so far." 

(Sound of someone struggling)

"What have you done to me?"

"The papers that you signed gave me your consent to perform surgery on you. Those are breast implants. A very simple procedure for a plastic surgeon, which I happen to be. Don't worry, you are still intact below the waist - for the moment. You see, those breasts will be perfectly capable of nursing a baby, once we fill you up with female hormones.” 

“Why me?"

"I don't know why you responded to my advertisement. From the lovely panties you were wearing, I have deduced that you are a closet crossdresser. Perhaps you found my role reversal experiment exciting. I doubt if you anticipated the full extent of what I have planned for you."

"Let me out of here! I have a family."

"Which you have already disavowed. You should have told me the truth about yourself before you signed those papers. Now it is much too late."

"You crazy bitch! I'll kill you for this!"

"I don't think so. Soon, you will be docile as a lamb. Castration tends to do that to a man."

"Oh my God! No!"

"If that was a prayer, it is not going to help you. But I am not without mercy. As I said, your new breasts will be fully functional. And I would not want to deprive you of the joys of motherhood. Although you will never be able to bear a child, you may want to suckle your genetic offspring."

"You must be insane! Let me out of here. Please, let me go!"

"You see, my little experiment requires that we preserve a quantity of your sperm in case you decide later to raise your own child. Prepare for your last male orgasm."

(Sound of machine humming. Groans. Vibrating sound. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.)

* * *

Patricia Summers draped her overcoat over a wooden chair and sat down at a computer terminal at the Washington Library on State Street. Her legs were almost purple from the cold, and she vowed never again to walk any distance in the Chicago winter in a dress.

Methodically, as was her daily routine, she visited the web sites of the major New York newspapers and television stations, searching for any developments in the unsolved homicide of Dr. Vendetta Frankenwiener. After a brief flurry of stories following the discovery of her body, and some initial speculation as to the motive for the crime, the case appeared to have gone cold.

That speculation had centered around the doctor’s bizarre surgery practice before she was stripped of her license to practice medicine the previous year. Once a highly-respected urologist, she had been forced out of the profession after a series of botched vasectomies had turned a number of young men into eunuchs. All of these patients were being interviewed, but it appeared that all of them head good alibis, and the doctor’s murder was now thought to have been a robbery gone bad.

Pat smiled sadly to herself as she switched over to an Internet site featuring hard core pornography. When she was a man, they had never failed to stimulate an erection. Now, after her brutal emasculation at the hands of Dr. Frankenwiener, and subsequent transformation into a woman, she was searching for anything which might provide a spark of arousal. But as she scrolled through the stories, she felt none of the old familiar excitement, and she logged off with a sigh, as frigid as the weather outside. Then again, considering the macabre collection of dildos and other devices that she had been subjected to by Dr. Frankenwiener, it was a miracle Pat could even think about sex.

Things weren’t all bad, she told herself as she gathered up her purse and overcoat. After two months waiting on tables in Chicago, she had earned enough money to be able to move out of her dreadful SRO hotel into a small studio apartment. Her job interview that morning at Marshall Field’s, which explained her dress, heels and stockings, had gone very well, and she had been offered a job as a sales associate. In the men’s department, of all places, selling shirts and ties. Well, who better? She had worn them most of her life.

* * *

After two tall ales with his lunch, Detective Sturgess felt he was ready to listen to the rest of the tape. He put on a pair of earphones, plugged them into the dictabelt machine, and switched it on, a legal pad and pen in his hands. The quality of the recording was surprisingly good.

“Would you like to see your right testicle?”

“What?”

“Here, see how small it looks after it has been removed?”

“Oh, God. Oh, God.”

“One more snip, and we’ll be done.”

“Please, don’t do this. Please.”

“Too late! Here is the left one, see? All finished.”

“Oh, God.”

“I am going to put you under now, and when you wake up, you will be a new person.”

“Please, don’t”

“Wouldn’t you like to be a pretty girl?”

“God, no!”

“Would you rather be a sexless freak?”

Detective Sturgess tore the headphones off as a blood-curdling scream filled his ears. Christ, what a monster! The woman had certainly deserved to die, and if the man on the tape managed to survive what she did to him, Sturgess had his motive and prime suspect. He picked up the partial transcript on his desk, and found the passage he was looking for. “Dear, sweet, innocent Pat.” If Sturgess could determine when the tape was made, a cross-reference to missing persons with that first name could give him his answer.

* * *

Using a pay phone in the library, Patricia Summers telephoned the restaurant to tell them she would not be coming back to work, and made an appointment at a beauty salon near her apartment. Her hair had grown out well since her return to Chicago in December, and she was ready to try something different. 

Her third call was to a financial services company on LaSalle Street, confirming her four o’clock meeting with Mr. Arnold Nash. Arnold Nash, a handsome and smooth-talking investment advisor, had become the constant companion of Pat’s former wife. Her appointment was made in the name of Patricia Exman.

Bundling herself up against the sub-zero wind chill, she returned to State Street and headed north towards Talbot’s, which was having one of its blow-out clearances. Soon she would be buying her clothes with the employee discount at Marshall Field’s, but she needed something new for tonight. 

She tried on several outfits before selecting a black cocktail dress with a knee-length pleated skirt, drastically marked down. After a few other stops for shoes, lingerie and a little clutch purse, she splurged on a taxi to the salon. Entering with a wind-blown, overgrown shag in her natural brunette, she emerged two hours later a stunning blonde.

* * *

Detective Sturgess had his answer as soon as he resumed listening to the tape. 

“September 12, 2001. The subject has been anesthetized and is recovering without complications from a bilateral orchidectomy. I have preserved the scrotum for use as the labia in the patient’s vagina, and I am proceeding with the amputation of the penis and relocation of the urethra at this time. All vital signs are stable.”

Sturgess switched off the machine and reached for the phone. “I need the missing person reports for September 12th.”

“You gotta be kidding.”

“What’s so funny.”

“We only had about three thousand missing persons that day, Frank. Where you been?”

“Jesus, you’re right, what was I thinking. You do have the list, thought, right?”

“Sure, Frank, I’ll drop by with one.”

Sturgess realized that he had been so absorbed by the bizarre world of Dr. Vendetta Frankenwiener, he had completely forgotten about the World Trade Center disaster the day before she dictated that entry. What were the chances that one of the persons reported missing that day had in fact wound up in her clutches? 

He put on the earphones again and resumed listening. To his surprise, the next entry began as follows:

“October 1, 2001. The patient is beginning to come around. Good morning, Patricia.”

“Where am I?”

“New York.”

“What happened to my voice?”

“Your larynx has been shortened.”

“What? Who are you?”

“I am Dr. Frankenwiener. Don’t you remember?”

“Oh, my God. Oh, no.”

“Don’t try to get up. You are very weak.”

“Fuck off. Let me go.”

“Patricia, you have been unconscious for almost three weeks. If you tried to stand up without my help, you would fall down. In a minute, we will get up and try to go for a short walk.”

“Three weeks?”

“Yes. And so much has been accomplished! Your new vagina is healing wonderfully, and the estrogen therapy is going to round out your breasts to beautiful C cups. Your Adam’s apple is gone, you have already noticed your voice, and I even bobbed your nose.”

“Oh, Christ!”

“The estrogen is going to do wonders for your skin, and just yesterday I finished the last of the electrolysis treatments on your face. There is still a little swelling, and your hair is still too short, although it is growing out nicely. In another month, we could enter you in a beauty pageant!”

A stream of obscenities, in the new high-pitched voice of the doctor’s patient, filled Sturgess’s ears until the recorder was switched off. Sturgess continued to run the tape, hoping for more, but it ran silently until the spool ended with a metallic click.

* * *

Pat Summers shaved her legs in her tub, a huge improvement over the grungy bathroom in the hotel room she had been forced to live in after her escape from New York. She patted her smooth skin dry with a new over-sized towel, and after putting on her bra and panties, she stopped to survey her body in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Below her new blonde hairdo, which she had carefully kept dry during her soak in the tub, was a pretty woman’s face, the upturned nose the only change from Patrick Summer’s boyish features.

Her breasts were firm, her ass and hips had rounded out from months of female hormones, and her legs were terrific. When she had been a man, she had fantasized about having a body like this, never really wanting it to happen Now that it was hers, although she hated what had been done to her, she perversely wanted to take her new body for a test drive. To learn if she was capable of loving again, man or woman.

She shimmied into a black camisole and half slip, and dropped her new dress over her shoulders, being careful not to muss her hair. Since she had become a woman, she had learned to put her stockings on after she was dressed, to minimize the risk of running them. After she stepped into her new 3” heels, and applied a final coat of lipstick to her pouting mouth, she stood in front of the full length mirror and stepped back to survey herself. God, she was beautiful. 

* * *

Detective Sturgess ran an alpha search on the list of missing persons from September 11, 2001, and then ran it again on a first name basis. There were seventeen Patricks, Patrices, and miscellaneous Pats. After eliminating the firemen, police officers and rescue workers, the list was down to nine. Of these, four had since been identified or turned up. That left five possible suspects.

Sturgess looked at the files for each, trying to imagine them as the person on the tape. Two he ruled out immediately: one weighed over three hundred pounds, and one was Bolivian. Another was sixty-one years old, and Sturgess eliminated him also. That left two possible suspects: Patrick Summers, from Chicago, and Patrick Moynihan, from Morristown, New Jersey. As Sturgess flipped through Moynihan’s file, he read of a cell phone call made by him the morning of September 11th from his office in the North Tower. A bond trader, Moynihan had been trapped above the point of impact, and there was no way he could have escaped. That left Patrick Summers.

* * *

“Mr. Nash, your four o’clock appointment is here.”

Arnold Nash looked up from his Wall Street Journal and scanned his calendar. Patricia Exman. Nash had never met her, and he wasn’t even sure how she had gotten his name and number. Referred by a happy client, he supposed. He straightened his tie in the mirror on the back of his office door, and put on his expensive suit jacket.

He opened his door to come face to face with one of the most striking women he had ever seen. She appeared to be about thirty, and Nash found himself speechless as she reached out with a firm hand and introduced herself. His secretary gave him a knowing smile as he invited his guest to sit down in one of the plush chairs in front of his desk. 

“Can I offer you anything to drink?”

“Coffee would be nice.”

“How about a cappuccino or espresso?”

“Cappuccino would be wonderful,” she smiled, as she crossed her elegant legs and sat back in her chair. Nash buzzed his secretary and asked her for two cappuccinos.

“Have you lived in Chicago a long time?”

“No,” she answered. “I came here two years ago after I got married. My husband was from Chicago.”

Nash’s secretary returned with the cappuccinos, and after she left them alone, Nash began to probe. “You said was. Are you still married?”

“No, I left him after eighteen months. The divorce was finalized last week.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. I came home early one afternoon to find him parading around the bedroom in my panties and stockings.”

“Good Lord!”

She shrugged. “I hope I didn’t shock you, but I thought, if you’re going to be handling my money, we should have no secrets.”

* * *

Sturgess put down Patrick Summers' missing persons file and walked over to the window. Thirty-two years old, he was a financial analyst for a Chicago investment bank. Married with one daughter. Never been in trouble with the law. An upstanding citizen, who had happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time: Summers had flown to New York on September 10, 2001 and checked into the hotel at the World Trade Center. He had been scheduled to meet with New York associates the next day, but after the collapse of the World Trade Center and the evacuation of the financial district, he had never been heard from again.

Sturgess returned to his desk and called Summers’ former employers. No, the head of human resources told him, nobody at the office had talked to Summers after he checked in with his secretary on the afternoon of September 10th. The executor of his estate had petitioned for and obtained a death certificate, and the insurance benefits had been distributed to his widow.

“How much money did she receive?” Sturgess asked.

“Well, of course we have no way of knowing what was in his estate, but his company insurance alone was over two million dollars.” There was another $400,000 in his 401k, which would be distributed through probate.

Sturgess thanked her and hung up. The next call would be more difficult.

* * *

“How much would you like to invest with us?” Nash asked.

Pat had been waiting for this. “In return for keeping quiet, I got a very good settlement. Twelve million dollars.”

“So, you’re rich as well as beautiful. You must be a very popular woman.”

“I haven’t been with a man in over a year,” she sighed. “I’ve even taken up smoking, and right now, I’m dying for a cigarette.” Pat had deliberately scheduled her appointment with Nash at the end of the day, and it was time to set the trap.

“Unfortunately, we are a non-smoking office. Look, it’s almost five o’clock. Can I take you somewhere for a drink? We can continue to talk afterwards.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

Anne Summers turned down the evening news and picked up the telephone in the kitchen, where she was preparing a special dinner for her expected guest. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Patrick Summers?”

“Yes, this is Anne Summers.”

“Mrs. Summers, I am sorry to disturb you. My name is Frank Sturgess. I am a detective with the New York Police Department. Is this a bad time?”

“Well, I’m in the middle of fixing dinner right now. But I can talk to you.”

“Thanks, I’ll try to be brief. Mrs. Summers, I know that your husband was reported missing on September 11th of last year, and we still have an open file on him. Just for the record, have you had any contact from him?”

“No.”

“Some of the families of missing persons have been victimized by criminals claiming the identity of people lost in the World Trade Center, you know, to use their credit cards and such. Has there been any unusual activity in that regard?”

“No, all of our accounts were joint accounts, and there hasn’t been anything like that.”

“Has anybody contacted you on behalf of your husband?”

“No. Detective, the last time I talked to the authorities in New York, they told me to assume that my husband was dead.”

Sturgess was ready for this. “Frankly, up until this morning, I would have said the same to you. However, on the same day that your husband disappeared, a man named Pat was abducted in Greenwich Village. Did your husband know a doctor named Vendetta Frankenwiener?”

“Not that I know of. You said abducted. Has he been found?”




Vendetta's Diary



“No, but we have reason to believe that this person may still be alive, using a different identity.”

“Is there any chance he could be my husband?”

Sturgess pulled back. The woman’s answers were obviously genuine. If his suspect were indeed Patrick Summers, he had chosen a life of lonely exile, rather than subject his family to what had been done to him.

“No, ma’am, I don’t think so. Let me give you my number anyway, so you can call me if anyone tries to use his name or your accounts. Just as a precaution.”

After he hung up, Sturgess gathered up the file and tossed it onto a corner of his cluttered desk. Maybe Patrick Summers was alive somewhere. If he were ever found, there wasn’t a jury in the country that would convict him for murdering the hideous Dr. Frankenwiener.

What would something like that do to a person, Sturgess wondered. If you survived what Patrick Summers had gone through, what would you be capable of?

* * *

“Two dry martinis,” Nash told the waiter at the exclusive restaurant. He had suggested as an alternative to drinks an early dinner, and she had accepted readily. They sat side by side in a plush leather banquet in a dark corner of the restaurant, and she touched his hand as he lit her cigarette.

“You’re a very beautiful woman.”

“Do you date all your clients?”

“No,” he lied easily. “In fact, this is the first time it’s ever happened.”

The waiter returned with their martinis, and he offered a toast as she studied her menu. “To you, and your new life.” Buddy, if you only knew, Pat thought to herself as they touched glasses. As she sipped her martini, Pat felt his hand touch her knee. Deftly, she lowered her hand to his, and slid it a few inches up her silky thigh. She noticed with detachment that having a handsome man’s hand up her skirt did nothing for her. No matter. Back to business.

“Are you seeing anyone,” she asked him.

“No, I’ve been so busy with my work, I haven’t been out in ages.” Smooth, Pat had to admit to herself, since she had been shadowing him for two months, as he squired Anne Summers around Chicago.

The waiter returned, and it occurred to Pat that she was about to have her first gourmet meal in five months. Resisting the temptation to order an enormous steak, as Patrick would have done, she selected whitefish with a potato soufflé, and asparagus vinaigrette as a starter. The waiter produced a wine list, and she sat back and watched Nash order an expensive chardonnay. This was going to be fun.

She steered the conversation to her imaginary money. “Where do you think I should invest?”

“Tech stocks continue to offer the best opportunity for long range growth, and that’s what I would recommend to a beautiful young woman with her whole life ahead of her.” 

“Aren’t they awfully risky?” In her prior life as an investment banker, Pat had correctly anticipated the bubble, and she wanted to find out what Nash was doing with Anne Summers’ insurance money.

“We anticipate significant increases this year and for the foreseeable future.”

God, what an airhead, Pat thought to herself as the waiter produced her asparagus and his heart of lettuce drenched in blue cheese dressing. With a pang of envy, she cut a dainty forkful of asparagus as she watched him dive in. His cell phone rang, and he turned away from her as he spoke into it. Was it Anne, calling to ask why he hadn’t called? Or was she expecting him tonight? Pat strained to listen.

“I’m sorry, something came up at the office. No, I won’t be able to make it tonight. Sorry. Call you tomorrow. Bye,” he whispered. 

“Have I taken you away from something important?”

He touched her knee again, this time sliding it up her thigh without invitation. “No, Pat, I’m all yours.”

Pat excused herself to visit the ladies room between courses, feeling the sudden need to get away from him for a few minutes. Nash was not only an idiot, he was a cad, taking advantage of Anne Summers and risking their daughter's financial security. Pat would have to act tonight, she decided. 

A gorgeous brunette entered the ladies room, and Pat caught herself staring at the girl as she lifted her skirt and fussed with her slip and stockings. She felt a tingle between her legs, and suddenly it dawned on Pat that she might be a lesbian. She smiled at herself in the mirror as she freshened her lipstick. A custom engineered, limited edition, lipstick lesbian.

She returned to the table just as their entrees were being served. She steered the conversation to little things while they ate. Where did Nash live? An apartment in Streeterville. Did he have any roommates? He lived alone. Would she like to see his apartment? Pat blushed, with genuine embarrassment, and said yes.

After dessert (berries for her, fudge cake for him) and coffee, he drove her to his apartment in his BMW, and she took his arm as they walked from the garage into the lobby of his smart highrise. They were alone together in the elevator, and they rode silently to his floor. She followed him to his apartment, and after he opened the door, she paused nervously before entering. 

“Maybe we’re rushing this,” she said.

“I’ll just show you my view, and then I’ll take you home, if you don’t want to stay,” he said. The view was spectacular, and she stood at his floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lights of Chicago as he put on soft music and loosened his tie. He came up behind her, and put his hands on her shoulders. She turned around and reached up to kiss him, draping her arms languidly around his neck. Then, as he started to tongue her, Pat brought her knee up into his groin with terrific force.

Nash collapsed onto the floor in agony, gasping for breath as he started to throw up his steak dinner. Pat picked up a brass table lamp, and swung it down hard onto the back of his head. He struggled to get to his feet, and she hit him again with the lamp, knocking him back down. A third blow, and he lay motionless on the floor.

After feeling for a pulse, Pat removed her scarf and wiped her fingerprints off the lamp. She used it to close the door behind herself. She was not observed leaving his apartment, although the doorman later remembered seeing an attractive blonde come into the lobby with Nash, and leave alone a few minutes later.

* * *

POLICE SEARCH FOR SLAYER OF CHICAGO MAN 

CHICAGO: Police are searching for a mysterious woman last seen on the arm of a Chicago man before he was murdered in his luxurious apartment. Arnold Nash, 34, was found dead on the floor of his lakefront residence, the victim of massive head trauma and a ruptured testicle. According to a spokesman for the Chicago Police Department, Nash met earlier in the day with Patricia Exman, a Chicago woman who came to him for financial advice. They had dinner together at a restaurant on Rush Street before they were seen entering Nash’s apartment. The woman is described as about thirty, with blonde hair and extremely attractive. Here whereabouts are currently unknown.

Frank Sturgess put down his Daily News and looked out the window of his commuter train. Surely it was just a coincidence, he told himself, although there was something about that name…Patricia Exman. It would be interesting to find out if Arnold Nash had any connection to Patrick Summers. If one had the inclination.

* * *

Pat Summers, her hair cut and rinsed back into a mousy brown shag, pulled long wool socks over her stockings and laced up a pair of sneakers. She dropped her heels into her shoulder bag, and set off for her bus stop. 

As she made her way in the cold winter air, she stopped at a newsstand to read the headlines. She had to run to her stop in order to catch her bus. Taking a seat on the way to her new job, she felt better about herself than she had in quite some time.