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A Story of Jane Ch. 01

By: blacknight99



A Story Of Jane (In The First-Person Singular)

Chapter One



PROLOG

The most difficult aspect of the story I'm about to relate, its most unique feature, is one of tense. Now, don't get me wrong, I realize that the first person singular past tense narrative style has been around since well before Homer. That's not it at all. The problem is perspective.

I guess that doesn't make any sense to you. No, of course it doesn't. It's just that ....

Well, if you read this through to the end, I'll remind you of this paradox again. Then you'll understand. It all makes perfect sense ... once you can just understand the problem of tense.

...........................................

And now, A TECHNICAL NOTE: Most of our modern-day Christian-based holidays share their roots with other celebrations based on pagan rituals. The word Easter is derived from "Eastre," the Great Mother Goddess of the all the northern Saxon tribes. The annual celebration in her name was held on the vernal equinox. Followers of Wicca (witches) also hold a great celebration during the evening of the equinox (or the night before), and there are at least five other religions that also share the equinox as a time of celebration. Easter is always the first Sunday following the first full moon following the vernal equinox (which falls on March 21st, in most cases). The earliest possible day to celebrate Easter, therefore, would be March 22nd, but this would mean that the equinox would have to fall sometime on a Saturday, and afterward, the full moon would have to occur on the same day. Rare, but it does happen. The Easter holiday has little bearing on this story. But, as it turns out, these dates were exceedingly important.

..............................................

WEDNESDAY, the 18th of MARCH

I had seen her in the reading room before. It took me a moment to remember, but she had been there during the previous afternoon. I had thought when I saw her the first time that there was something profoundly familiar about her, and it struck me again now, as she approached me. The way her head and long neck turned as she slowed her purposeful stride, looking left and then right, seeing that we were alone in the large room, continuing toward me self-assuredly. It was that time of day when there were few people in the library at all, and it was not odd that there would be no one else in the main reading room. Later on a Wednesday afternoon, when the town's west-side high school let out, business would normally pick up a bit. School was out today, however, for the start of the Easter break; so for now, it was just the two of us.

Suddenly, it dawned on me why I had noted the familiarity. In a sudden moment of clarity, I realized that I actually had seen her face before: every morning in the mirror. She looked like me. Well, not exactly like me, of course. She must have been fifteen years older, in her late thirties, at least, but I thought with a pang of self doubt, that I could only HOPE to look that good in another decade and a half. She was much more shapely than I, much better proportioned. I'm a cow; my breasts much too large for the rest of my frame, and a constant source of distraction, both to me and whoever I'm trying to carry on a conversation with. She, more mature and sure of herself, seemed perfect in body and spirit. She had my sharp facial features, my eyes and brow. Our ears were almost identical in size and spacing. But we most definitely parted company in the hair department. Hers was short, thick, straight and very, very black; mine was long, curly, and almost bright red, a strong trait of my ancestry. 

"May I help you?" I asked automatically, trying hard not to stare.

"Yes," she answered, lyrically. She paused, glancing about her again. "Are we alone here?"

"Donna's in the back," I answered, somehow disappointed that she might not want to speak to me. "She's the head librarian. She's back in the stacks. Did you want to talk to her instead?"

"Oh, no," she smiled. "It's you I want. I have something for you."

She produced a single long-stemmed red rose from her purse. It's a wonder I hadn't noticed it before. The stem must have been protruding at least a foot. The head of the rose was encased in a clear zip-lock plastic bag, which she removed to thrust the flower forward, holding it just below my face.

"Oh," I said, "it's lov ...." I choked into silence as I automatically inhaled the rose's fragrance. It was horrid. There was a vague rose-like odor underlying a mixture of scents which included sulfur, alcohol, rotting wood, and several other things I could not guess at. "Ugh!" I grunted. I tried to back up a step, but I couldn't seem to make myself move.

"Smell it again, please," she said, smiling.

I inhaled again. The smell was almost unbearable. "No, please," I whined. "It's awful!"

"Yes, I know," she agreed patiently. "It won't last long, I promise. Now, once more, please."

Again I breathed in the rancid fumes, shaking my head slightly, slowly in the negative.

"That's wonderful, my dear. Now, look directly into my eyes, please. Yes, that's it. Right into my eyes. Yes, perfect. What's your name, dear?"

"Molly Mahone," I answered softly, trying desperately to talk without inhaling. 

"Who'd have guessed I'd finally find you and you'd be Irish," she said, wonderingly. "Now Molly, I'm going to say some things, and I'll thank you not to interrupt. Just keep looking right into my eyes, like you're doing now, and try to keep quiet. Okay? Do you understand?"

"Yes," I squeaked.

She began reciting something in a foreign tongue. It took me a moment to realize that she was speaking in Latin. Each word seemed to end in "ia" or "um" or "o".

"I don't understand Latin," I said, realizing immediately my indiscretion. She stopped abruptly. "I never took Latin," I muttered in a smaller voice, wishing I could undo the terrible sin of interruption. "I don't understand," I mumbled softly, tears welling in my eyes.

She gave me a stern look, then a patient almost-smile. "You won't interrupt again, will you Molly?"

"No!" I fervently promised, my voice weak and pleading.

She began again, and I at once realized that she was repeating, once more from the beginning, exactly what she had recited before. I felt absolutely terrible that I had caused her the inconvenience of repetition. In contrition, I decided I would breathe more deeply of the noxious flower being held under my nose, and I concentrated all my efforts to gaze exactly into the centers of her beautiful eyes. I wanted desperately to please her.

Suddenly, it was over. She stopped the recitation, stuffed the head of the flower back into its plastic bag, wrinkling her nose as she caught a whiff of her own weapon, sealed the thing up, and thrust it back into her purse. Then she looked back at me and smiled. I felt disoriented, to say the least. The whole thing was very strange to begin with, but the abruptness with which it ended left me staggered.

"Now, Molly, you did that very well," she stated. I felt a flush of bashful accomplishment. I had done something to make her happy. "When do you take your lunch break, dear?"

"Noon."

A frown. "Oh, my. That's almost another two hours."

"I could trade with Donna," I blurted. "She won't mind, I know. She takes her lunch break at eleven!"

A smile. I felt that wonderful feeling of shy pleasure again. "That would be wonderful, dear. There's a cafe right across the street. I'll be in a booth in the back. There will be some other ladies there I want you to meet. Eleven o'clock sharp. Don't be late, Molly." She spun around and walked toward the front door.

"Who are you?" I squeaked, before I could stop myself.

She halted and turned back to me, that awful look of smiling patience on her lips. A stern teacher placating a slow student. "I'm Josephine. You can call me Jo. All my good friends do." She turned again and walked out of the library.

Her good friend. I blushed crimson. I don't think I'd ever been so happy. 

I looked at the clock. Fifty minutes to go.

I rushed into the Pink Pig diner across the street from the small downtown library at precisely eleven o'clock. For once, I ignored the garish porcine decorations that smiled pinkly from every corner, and spotted Jo seated at a corner booth all the way in the back. As promised, there were others there, and as I rushed grinning to meet my new best friend, I drew up short. They were all alike. Well, once again, not exactly alike, but so alike as to leave little doubt that they were drawn together by blood. All dark, all sharply beautiful, all with that intense intelligence smoldering behind their eyes. And once again, that uneasy familiarity. They all looked vaguely like me.

I was just regaining my equilibrium and was in the process of pasting the smile back on my lips, when Jo thrust me right back into deep confusion by making introductions and playing musical chairs at the same time. I tried desperately to keep up.

"Molly, I'd like you to meet my sister, Jan," she said, standing. Jan stood, too. They all stood. Jan shook my hand, trying to smile, but she was somehow gawking instead. As she shook, she sort of pulled me toward the booth. "You sit on the inside, next to the wall, dear, if you don't mind," Jo continued. I slid into the booth as another black-haired beauty slid in next to me, this one probably the prettiest (and I guessed, the youngest) of the group. She gave me a dazzling smile as she took my hand.

"I'm Jean, Molly," she cooed. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

Jo had pulled a chair up to the end of the table as Jan slid in opposite me. The fourth sat beside her, and at first I supposed her to be Jan's twin, but I began to notice subtle differences. Jan was older, I guessed, but not by much. This fourth sister had a small smattering of freckles on cheeks that were just a little higher. They dressed alike, though, and I got the impression that they liked to make people think they might be twins. Sisterly trickery.

"This is Jill," Jo completed the introductions. The other three were studying me intensely. 

I couldn't help but laugh, if for no other reason than to try to draw attention in some other direction than myself. "Jo, Jill, Jan and Jean?" I asked with a giggle. But they were not to be distracted. 

"Uncanny," Jill muttered. "Red hair and a little heavy up top, but my God! She's a perfect match!"

Jan was staring at me open-mouthed. "Jo, she's absolutely amazing! How in the world did you find her?"

I looked around at the faces without comprehension. Jo looked smug. Jill and Jan shook their heads in disbelief. "I don't understand," I protested weakly.

"It's okay, dear," Jean said softly beside me. "You just remind us of someone, that's all."

"Who?" I asked.

Again, they ignored me. "I'll tell you about all the legwork later," Jo told the assembly. "The important thing is that I DID find her. Now, our time is limited. Unless Jean relents, we need to come up with a plan and do it soon. The girl only has an hour for lunch."

As if on cue, a waiter in a grimy apron appeared. I hadn't seen him coming, since I was facing the wall in the last booth of the diner.

"Nothing for her right now," Jo said, waving him away. "We'll order in awhile."

"Yes, Ma'am," the waiter said, actually bowing and backing away. I felt a little disappointed, and not a little hungry.

"I'm not about to back down," Jean said, continuing the conversation. "We are not going to turn Black now, and what you're proposing for this innocent is about as Black as it comes!"

"How do you know she's an innocent?" Jan asked. I looked at her, dumbfounded. 

"Black side, White side! You sound like a Star Wars movie!" Jill interjected. "Can't magic be Gray?"

"We don't have time for this!" Jo snapped. "We have to get her back! We only have an hour to figure out a strategy! We're obviously not going to change Jean's mind, and we can't do anything unless we act together. Now, I need some ideas!"

"I don't understand," I said, trying to break into the strange conversation.

"Dear, I need you to be quiet and let us talk, please," Jo said sternly. I felt terrible. I couldn't believe I'd interrupted her again. Not even answering, I simply nodded, put my hands in my lap, and lowered my eyes, which were threatening to overflow.

"Jean, what you're proposing is insanity. It hasn't been tried for hundreds of years, and even then it wasn't successful," Jill said pleadingly across the table to her headstrong younger sister. 

"You'd sacrifice the life of your sister?" Jan hissed.

"I don't want to sacrifice anybody!" Jean said levelly. 

"Ladies!" Jo said as loudly as she dared in the public place.

"Okay, okay," Jill conceded. She paused, thinking. "It's going to have to be some sort of exotic fantasy, of course. Something sexual. If it comes from her own background, it would be best." She looked across at me, and I looked up into her eyes, sensing a coming question. "Are you involved with someone, Molly?"

"What?"

"Do you have a lover?"

I flushed. Who did she think she was? "That's none of your business!"

"Molly!" Jo chided.

My head snapped around toward her. "Oh!" I exclaimed contritely. "No," I lowered my gaze, blushing. "I'm not seeing anyone right now. Not ... for a long time...."

"Molly, I want you to look at Jill, please," Jo said. I complied immediately. "She's going to say something, and when she's through, I want you to say 'As with Jo, so with Jill.' Do you understand?"

Of course I didn't, but I nodded. Jo handed Jill a 3X5 card with some writing on it, which Jill studied for a moment, then read several words in Latin. When she finished, she looked up at me so I could gaze into her eyes. "As with Jo, so with Jill," I recited. I didn't feel anything. A little foolish, perhaps. 

"And now Jan," Jo instructed, as Jill handed the card to the raven-haired sister beside her. "When she finishes, you'll say 'As with Jo, so with Jan," okay?"

I nodded, turned my eyes to Jan, and went through the little ritual again. When we were finished, I turned without being asked, and stared into Jean's dark eyes. She smiled, ignored the card, and recited the words. "As with Jo, so with Jean," I said clearly. Jean's soft smile was my reward.

"Are you a virgin?" Jill asked, without preamble.

I turned back to face her and blushed furiously. "No," I whispered.

"When did you first make love?" she continued cruelly.

"In college. Toward the end of my junior year. About two years ago." I couldn't force myself to meet their gazes. I looked down at the table helplessly.

"Tell us about it."

"Oh, no!" I pleaded. "Oh, please! It's really embarrassing. Please?" I looked frantically around the table. 

Jean patted me on the leg. "Go ahead, dear. Just tell us. It's okay," she assured.

I looked back down. This was terrible. I'd spent two years trying to forget this. "It was during Spring break," I started weakly.

"Speak up, please," Jo chided.

"Everybody was leaving for Spring break," I said, only a little stronger. "My dorm was going to have the floors redone, so we all had to be out. Everybody else was going home, but my folks were in Europe, so I didn't really have anyplace to go. 

"My roommate, Gail ... She was always trying to get me to do crazy things. She'd gotten me started on birth control pills, even though I wasn't seeing anybody. She convinced me it would make my periods easier. Then she kept fixing me up with guys, and "suggesting" that I should go all the way. She was always pushing me in that direction.

"Anyway, the day we were all finishing up our mid-terms and packing to leave, she came into the room and told me there was this guy I just had to meet. He wasn't even a student there, but he was house-sitting for a Prof. All excited like, she drug me downstairs to meet this guy. He was waiting in the coffee house across from the dorm. And right away, I fell for him. Hard. He said he was a poet. No kidding. That's what he did. He said he worked odd jobs, wrote at night, and had actually gotten a few things published. He was working on a book, but needed a new agent, he said. 

"He wanted to go get something to eat, and I said I couldn't; that I had to pack and find a motel. But he insisted and said there'd be plenty of time that night. We ate burgers and he read some of his poems to me. I thought they were really good. We talked for a couple hours - there, and later as we walked through the park. He wanted to get a beer, and we wound up in a little bar. I didn't like to drink much, but he said there was a special drink he wanted to make me. He left me in a booth while he talked to the bartender, and when he came back, he gave me a drink that tasted a lot like lemonade. Well, the more of it I drank, the more drunk I felt, even though it was just that one glass. By the time we left, I could hardly walk.

"He had his arm around me, and I leaned against him and giggled almost continuously. I had no idea where he was taking me, but I just let him lead me, and of course, we wound up at this house he was staying at. As he was unlocking the door, I said 'You're trying to seduce me!' and he said 'Trying, hell! I'm doing it!' and I stopped giggling and thought: I can't resist him! He's really going to do it! This is it! I'm not going to be a virgin anymore!

"And then I just stood there as he finished unlocking the door. He took my hand and I let him lead me inside. As soon as we were in, he spun me around and kissed me. Kissed me hard. I didn't know what to do with my hands. I put them awkwardly on his arms, but he reached up and grabbed my wrists and lifted my hands up and around his neck. I left them there, and his hands roamed up and down my back as we kissed again, then my sides, and then my back again. As if by magic, the clasp of my bra let go. He put his tongue in my mouth, and I moaned. When one of his hands found my breast, my knees buckled. He laughed, then scooped me up as if I were Scarlet O'Hara and carried me off to the bedroom. I just buried my face in his shoulder, my arms still around his neck where he'd put them. I felt really weird; very drunk, and yet amazingly aware of what was happening to me. And God, I was turned on!

"I was only wearing a tee-shirt and shorts, and as soon as he put me back down, still shaky on my feet with my arms around his neck, he grabbed the lower part of my shirt, and in one easy movement I was naked above the waist. As the shirt and bra came free, I tried to lower my arms to cover myself, but again he grabbed my wrists and put them back around his neck. His hands moved over my body like his pen moved across a page; I was one of his compositions. He paid special attention to my breasts, which he'd been staring at all afternoon. His hands moved lower, and the snap of my shorts came undone. He was kissing me again, then a zip and a tug, and I was totally bare except for the sandals, which he took care of after he picked me up and threw me on my back on the bed.

"Then he was all over me! Touching and petting and licking and sucking and pinching and nibbling. The room seemed to be spinning, but I could feel everything! Everything he did! I gasped and moaned and tried to tell him that I hadn't done this before, that I wanted it to be good for him, to be special. I mumbled and groaned and stammered, and was really surprised when I found myself with my legs over his shoulders, his arms wrapped around the outside of my legs, his hands pinching and squeezing my nipples, and his tongue lapping wildly between my legs. No one had ever done that before. I'd never even been touched down there by anyone except – except – well ... me; and this feeling was an amazingly new experience. The orgasm hit me without warning. I didn't even feel it coming. I think I might have screamed.


A Story of Jane Ch. 01



"I was shaking, and the room was spinning, and I was still coming a little, and suddenly he was on top of me. Somehow, he was naked, but I didn't know when he'd taken off his clothes. I only know that his bare chest was against mine and that this was yet another new sensation. I tried to tell him again that I didn't know what to do, since I'd never done this before, but I couldn't seem to make my mouth work. I suddenly realized that he was pushing his cock into me. I tried to focus, tried to preserve this moment in my memory, but when I put my hands back around his neck (I don't remember what I'd done with them in the meantime), he grabbed my wrists again and held them over my head. I was experiencing such a jumbled mix of feelings; my hands trapped; his body pushing down on mine; a vague disappointment that there was no pain; a new and alarmingly good feeling of being totally overpowered and helpless; that amazing slippery, filling feeling in a place that had never been filled before.

"And then he stiffened and groaned, and it was over. We lay like that for I don't know how long. Gradually, our breathing slowed, but he didn't get off of me, and he kept a firm grip on my wrists. The bed seemed to be moving as if we were on a ship at sea. Eventually, he let go of me, rolled off the bed, and padded off into some other room. The bed continued to rock and roll, or so it seemed to me, though I didn't move an inch, my arms still over my head where he'd left them. I felt very awake and very alive and very much in love. I told myself that I'd do anything for him. This was put to the test a moment later, when he sat me up and handed me a glass of clear liquid and told me to drink it. I told him I wasn't thirsty, but he said 'Drink it. Drink it all,' and I did, just like that. When I was finished, he put the empty glass on the bedside table, crawled back into bed, and gathered me into his arms. I nestled into his chest and tried to tell him what I was feeling, but he shushed me, and suddenly I was asleep. I woke up about noon the next day."

I looked around the table at the four dark sisters. "That was it," I said weakly. "That was the first time."

They all looked a bit flushed, but certainly not as red as I felt. Eventually, Jean asked "What happened to the relationship? How long did it last?"

"Only a week," I answered, tears coming to my eyes and one trickling down my left cheek. "It was all a trick, really. He used me."

"Tell us," Jean urged.

"But briefly, dear," Jo said, glancing at her watch. "Abbreviate a bit."

"The next day, he tied my hands to the headboard as soon as I woke up and made love to me again. It hurt a little, this time, but after he'd come inside me, he lay next to me and stroked me with his fingers until I came again, too. He kept telling me that I was a natural submissive, and he said he loved that about me.

"I couldn't believe that the dorm had closed and I hadn't gotten any of my things, but he said I wouldn't need anything. When he untied me and let me get up and use the bathroom, I noticed that only my tee-shirt and shorts were still around. He'd thrown away my bra and panties. 

"He fixed me a sandwich and chips and a diet Coke for lunch, but as soon as I'd finished, I started feeling drunk again. That was honestly the first time I'd even thought that he might be giving me some sort of drug. He stripped me and tied my hands behind my back, then he started doing everything for me. He bathed me, gently, soaping me, rinsing, touching, stroking. Then he washed my hair, and dried it, and brushed it for what seemed to be hours. After a salad for dinner, during which he kept me tied, he sat me on a stool while he washed the dishes. He began kissing me again, then touched me and kept me on the verge of an orgasm forever. Then finally he took me brutally, and only then made me come. Again, he gave me a glass of what appeared to be water, and I fell asleep right away.

"The next day, he took me shopping at the mall and bought me a slinky halter-top dress at Frederick's and some high-heeled shoes that made me look like a real slut. But I felt like that way anyway, wearing just a tee-shirt with no bra. I couldn't hide THESE! They shake around a lot when I don't wear any support. Then he took me home and tied me up again. This time, when he brought me one of his "special" drinks, I pleaded with him, telling him I didn't need drugs to love him. He told me that if I really felt that way about him, I wouldn't argue. So I drank it. The world just seemed to spin away, again. I was in some other type of place, a place where I could feel everything, but where every type of self control seemed to allude me. He bathed me again, and this time he took a disposable razor and shaved me. But he didn't stop with my legs and underarms. He shaved me bare between my legs. Then he took me to bed, and tied me spread-eagle, and touched me, and licked me, and I came SO hard! And then he took me rough! He could be so very rough!

"The next day, he kept me tied to a chair while he worked on his manuscripts. He only let me up to use the bathroom. He fed me, and again bathed me and did my hair. Then he dressed me up in the new halter dress and shoes and took me out. It was to a party, and I just sort of hung around while he talked and mingled with some other guys. About an hour after we'd arrived, he told me to get my purse from the room where they'd put all the hats and coats and then meet him upstairs. He was with half a dozen other guys when I got up there, and he took the purse and opened it, taking out one of several little glass vials that he must have put in before we'd left the house. He poured the contents into a glass of cola, handed it to me, and told me to drink it. When I hesitated, he gave me a real stern look, so I did as he asked. I felt the old feeling almost immediately. He told the other men to ask me some questions, and they started asking me some really lewd things.

At first, I refused to even comment, but soon I was giggling uncontrollably. Then he really surprised me by taking my hands and tying them in front of me, then looping the other end of the rope around a hook for a plant hanger in the ceiling. He kissed me hard, and I responded as I always did. He ran his hands over my body, and really shocked me when he untied the halter and peeled the dress down my body. The other men began fondling me. I resisted for a few minutes, but I felt so weak and helpless, and SO out of control! They kissed me and petted me. One guy was rubbing me with constant, repetitive strokes between my legs, and I came all in a rush. I heard a zipper, then felt a cock, a big cock, bigger than the only other one I'd ever had, pushing inside me. I couldn't believe it was happening to me. They took me. All of them. When it was over, my lover led me out of the house, my hands still tied in front of me, and drove me home. My purse was full of money from the drugs he'd sold.

"It went on like that for the rest of the week. I was bound every day. High every day. Every night, a little glass of clear liquid, and oblivion. Another party on the weekend ended with another orgy, and another huge wad of cash in my purse.

"And then one day, it was over. It was just ... over. I woke up, and my hands weren't tied anymore. And he wasn't there anymore. The house held no clue that it had ever happened, except for the dress and shoes, my shorts and tee-shirt (no bra or panties), and a note in his handwriting, unsigned, that simply said 'Be out by noon.' The dorm had opened that day, so I went there and cried and cried, and tried to make sense of it all. But I had stomach cramps so bad by that night, that I had to check myself into the campus hospital. I had them test me for diseases, which blessedly all came back negative, but I tested positive for cocaine, opiates, LSD, and some sort of hypnotic. I was in there for a week; 'drying out,' they said. I never heard from him again. I never even tried looking.

"I haven't made love since; haven't even dated." Tears were streaming down both my cheeks now. "I've never told anyone about this," I finished weakly.

"You haven't made love for two years?" Jan said incredulously. 

My voice finally broke. "No!" I sobbed. Jean put an arm around me consolingly and patted my hand as if I were a little girl in need of comfort. 

"Can we use any of that?" Jan asked, turning to Jill.

She thought a moment. "Some of it, sure. But we need something current, something like a fantasy." She looked across at me, and I flinched, dreading the coming question.

"You do have fantasies, don't you, Molly? Do you masturbate?"

I seized Jean's hand and turned to her. She seemed much more compassionate, much more understanding than any of her siblings. "Oh God, no!" I protested. "Oh, please! Please don't make me tell about that!"

Jean shushed me with a whisper. She brushed a few strands of red hair away from my forehead and placated me gently. "Don't be silly, now, Molly. I know it doesn't seem like it, but this is for your own good. You know that you don't have a choice, that you have to do as we say. Don't you? Okay, stop crying. That's it. Take a deep breath, now, love. That's it. Now another one. Feel better? Now, tell us what we want to know."

I took a shuddering breath, lowered my eyes back to the table, and began again. "I have a rape fantasy. It's not that uncommon; I've read several articles about it in the psychology section. Most of them say it isn't really harmful, as long as I know the difference between fantasy and reality. I realize it probably stems from my ... my ... experience at college. I can't seem to keep from thinking about it sometimes. I've been trying to limit how much I've been doing it, though. I know this seems really ... strange, but I try to save those thoughts for the weekends. Lately, though, it's gotten a little more serious; a little out of control, I guess.

"Shortly after I started working at the library, I walked into one of the upstairs study rooms and surprised a bunch of Junior High School boys who were talking loudly, and laughing and giggling. They all grabbed their books and fled, as if they were doing something really bad, but I couldn't see any evidence of it. There were a bunch of magazines scattered on the table, Life, Look, Time, and some others, and I started collecting them to take back to the main reading room. But one of them felt too heavy, and sure enough, there was another magazine inside it; a dirty magazine. A really dirty magazine. I didn't even know such things existed. The cover showed ... well, everything! You know, both male and female. And it was evident that the girl on the cover was being raped! The guy was holding a knife. There are always publications in the library that we're throwing away, and we can take them home, if we want. I slipped the nasty magazine inside another one, a throw-away, and I took it home with me that night. Well, since then, I've sort of developed this routine.

"On Fridays, I close up the library by myself at seven o'clock. There's this little grocery store, just a block from here. I stop in there and buy the fixings for a salad for dinner, and something for the rest of the weekend (I don't work again until Monday), and a bottle of chilled white wine. I live a block behind the grocery, but instead of walking around the block, recently I've been cutting through the alley that runs beside it to my street. You see, there was a rape in that alley about six months ago. They never caught the guy, and I ... well, I ... I guess that ... like I said, things are getting a little out of control with my fantasy. And, anyway, when I get to the other end of the alley, I just cross the street and my house is right there. I go in, and put the groceries away, and make my salad. I have this special wine glass; special because I can get exactly six glasses of wine from a bottle. I pour one, and sip it as I have my bath, and all the time, I'm thinking about how I felt while I was walking down that dark alley.

"When I'm through with the bath, I put on this silk bathrobe, with nothing else underneath; then I pour a second glass of wine and eat my salad while I watch the news. Then I take my third glass into the living room and take out the magazine. I have it memorized by now, of course, but I still force myself to look at it slowly, picture by picture, page by page. It doesn't have any words at all; it's just sort of a story in pictures; very, very explicit pictures. In the story, a guy with a knife pushes a woman into her house as she's unlocking the front door. He forces her to strip, then makes her take his clothes off, too. He touches her all over, licks her, suckles her, and then finally, he does it to her. You know ... he ... he fucks her. Eventually, she is overcome by what he's doing to her, and she becomes a willing participant, holding him, helping him. She even sucks on him. 

I realize that those are just models in the pictures, that they're just acting out the rape, but there's no denying that they're really fucking. I mean, it shows it, you know? And he really comes inside her, because it shows pictures of it dripping down her thighs after he's through. But I pretend it's real, that he's really raping her ... raping me. As I look at it, I start touching myself, but I won't let myself cum. I wait until I finish the magazine and the glass of wine, and I go to bed. Then I remember it all again; the walk home down the alley, the magazine, the way I feel as I touch myself, and I keep myself right on the edge for a long, long time. And then, finally, I make myself cum. I always go right to sleep after that.

"I clean house on Saturday, but I take out the magazine again that night after dinner, while I have the other three glasses of wine from the bottle. And it always ends the same way, making myself cum so hard that I almost pass out." I was crying again. "And that's all until the next Friday. I try hard not to think about it again until then; but sometimes, at night during the week, I just can't help myself. It's been happening a lot more, recently."

I fell silent. There was nothing else to say. I felt drained. These women knew everything about me now. Everything.

"Now, THAT we can use!" Jill said.

They were silent, flushed and thinking for several long moments, then Jan and Jill started talking at once. They were very excited all of a sudden, not about the sex, really, but about this strange "plan" of theirs.

Jo broke in to restore order at the table. "We only have 15 minutes before she has to be back," she declared. She turned to me. "Molly, you feel sleepy," she told me flatly.

"What?"

"You're tired," she said, making a firm statement of it. "All this emotional testimony has really drained you. You're really quite exhausted. I want you to rest your head against the wall and close your eyes for a few minutes. It will refresh you. You'll take a little nap, and we'll wake you up when it's time to go, so you won't be late."

I didn't want to displease her again, so I did as she asked. How could she have known how drowsy I'd become? She was really very perceptive. As soon as I shut my eyes, I felt sleep engulf me. I could vaguely hear the four sisters talking and arguing, but it didn't really matter to me, since I was asleep. I can remember talking in my sleep, answering questions; but I have no recollection of what they said or of what I said in return. It was all a strange dream.

Jean gently shook me awake. "Molly, I have something really important to tell you," she said seriously. I turned to face her fully, and tried to pay attention. "Just look right into my eyes as I tell you this, so you'll know it's true," she continued. "Everything that's happened here at lunch today, everything you've told us and everything you've heard, it's all unimportant. None of it is important in the least. I know you enjoyed meeting us, but besides that, there's really no reason at all to dwell on any of it. No reason to remember. No reason to give it any thought whatsoever. That way, you can just feel happy about getting to know us, and that's the only feeling you'll have about this lunch. Isn't that nice?"

I had to agree. I really was happy to have met them, and I readily told them so. Sitting on the table before me was a grilled chicken Caesar salad in one of those Styrofoam carry-out things. Jean got up to let me out and really surprised me by giving me a hug and a little kiss on the cheek. I thanked them again for lunch, gave them a genuine smile and, clutching my salad, I left. I had had a remarkably pleasant lunch break.

The truth of the matter was that I absolutely adored them all.



A Story of Jane Ch. 02



A Story Of Jane (In The First-Person Singular)

Chapter Two

THURSDAY, the 19th of MARCH

At 2:30 the next afternoon, Jean walked into the main reading room. I was so happy to see her that I rushed out from behind the desk, and we embraced like long lost cousins. Donna, the head librarian, was in the room, so I stammered half way through an introduction before I realized that I had never learned Jean's last name. Worthington. Jean provided it herself, without batting an eye, then proceeded to compliment Donna on her dress, her hair, her library and her professionalism to the point that my boss was literally eating out of her hand (Donna is about 50 pounds overweight). By the time the litany was complete, Donna herself came up with the suggestion that I take all the time I'd like to show Jean around. Jean was quick to accept, telling her that I'd promised to help find some reference material for a Lady's Auxiliary presentation that was forthcoming, and arm-in-arm, we walked off into the stacks.

Now, this was the smallest of two small-town libraries, and so we didn't have very far that we COULD walk. But in the farthest corner of the building, behind the stacks, there is an employee break room, complete with couch and mini-refrigerator. I sensed Jean wanted to talk to me alone, so this was my destination. The first thing she did after closing the door was quiz me about possible interruptions, and I was quick to tell her that there was no earthly way that Donna, being the only other employee here today, could possibly leave the front desk unattended without closing the whole building. We had, I assured her, a good hour or two alone in this room. She smiled, nodded, and told me to take off my clothes.

I don't really know what shocked me more, the request, or the way my fingers started undoing the top button of my blouse before I questioned her about such a strange order. Even worse, she began taking off her own clothes. All my protestations were met with a pleasant smile and patient entreaties for me to hurry. I went as fast as I could, but I sort of played for time, as well, carefully folding my blouse and draping it over the arm of the sofa. I stopped totally for a moment, gawking, as she finished and stood before me like a sculpted work of art. Her body was perfect. Perfect. I would have given anything to have breasts like those; so well suited to the rest of her gorgeous frame. 

"I'm not ..." I protested, "I don't ... I mean, with another woman ... it's not what I ...." I couldn't find the words to make her understand, and the fact that I also couldn't stop leering at her made the whole scene even more ludicrous.

Again, she told me to hurry, and I reached behind my back and unsnapped my bra. My ungainly breasts swung free, and I blushed crimson, stammering again that I didn't want to do this; but feeling that my protestations were foolish as well, since she had already finished. Finally, I stood before her, as nude as she, letting my arms dangle helplessly at my sides because I felt she wanted an unrestricted view. She was smiling again, broadly, and shaking her head slowly. 

"God, I'd give anything to have breasts like those," she said.

I barked a laugh, which seemed to stretch into sort of a manic giggle, and told her about my most recent thoughts of her own assets. She laughed, as well, then shocked me back into silence as she picked up her over-sized purse, withdrew a black candle, fit it into a black holder, and placed it in the center of the room on the floor. She lit it with a lighter, which she returned to her purse, then sat facing the burning candle, her legs crossed, Indian-style, her back straight. She looked like a goddess. 

She told me sit opposite her, and I tried as best I could to match her position and posture. 

"I don't understand," I told her.

"Of course you don't, dear," she said simply. I'm sure I detected a note of concerned understanding, as well. That was some consolation.

She reached into her purse again and withdrew a very old leather-covered book, about the size of a modern paperback. She found a place, marked by a red ribbon, and spread the book open on her lap. Then, in a soft but firm voice, she began reading in Latin. I knew better than to interrupt, and was thankful, at least, that there were no reeking flowers involved. As she continued, though, pausing only to turn the pages, her voice seemed to be a living thing; wrapping itself around me, holding me, seeping through my skin and into every part of my body. Something was definitely happening to me. Something wonderful. Something overwhelming. 

I don't think I fell asleep. Perhaps I fainted. All I know is that after some indeterminable amount of time, I opened my eyes to find myself lying flat on my back, stretched out on the carpeted floor, my arms at my sides. Jean was stretched out beside me on her left side, her head propped up by her left hand, her body so close to mine that I could feel her all along the length of me. I was acutely aware of her breasts pressing against my arm and shoulder. With long, manicured nails, the fingertips of her right hand were idly tracing little patterns across my throat, my breasts, my stomach, my pubis, my upper thighs. She was drinking me in with her eyes.

"Something happened to me," I told her.

"Yes," she whispered simply. There was a small catch in her voice, and I looked at her and for the first time saw the tears.

"Did I do something wrong?" I asked with genuine concern.

"Oh, no," she said softly, with a little shivering sob. "You were perfect."

I lifted my arm and rolled a little toward her to better see her face. I was very, very aware that my nipples were touching hers. "Don't cry," I said quietly. "I couldn't bear it if you cried. I'd do anything for you!"

This only seemed to make matters worse. "I know you would," she cried softly. "You already have. You've done everything for me."

I couldn't take it any longer. I leaned forward and kissed her. It wasn't anything I'd ever consider doing under normal circumstances, but then, nothing seemed to be normal anymore. It was like kissing warm satin. I never could have imagined that another woman's lips would feel so soft. I'd never really WANTED to imagine it. Even now, all I really cared about was pleasing her, and I kissed her because I sensed it was what SHE wanted. But what I hadn't realized, of course, was the effect it would have on ME. We both shuddered, and the kiss seemed to go on a long, long time. When her lips parted, I parted mine as well, and as her tongue began flickering along my lips and teeth, I only then reacted by doing the same to her. Finally, we broke for air, panting and caressing and gazing into each other's eyes like a couple of love-struck teens. 

Looking longingly at me with her dark, teary eyes, she reached up, pushing gently on my shoulder, and I let her ease me onto my back. "I need to do something for you," she murmured.

"You can do anything to me," I answered, honestly.

"That's the problem," she replied softly. "I've done so very much TO you already! Now I have to do something FOR you. Will you let me?"

I didn't say anything as she let her hand move over me gently, petting and squeezing and pinching first one breast, then the other. The hand drifted lower, urging my legs apart, as her mouth lowered to my exposed left nipple. I gasped, then tried to stifle the moan that followed. She stopped suckling and looked into my eyes again. "Don't hold back," she ordered softly. "Just let it happen, okay?" I nodded, too out of breath to answer, and arched my back as the mouth regained my nipple. She was rubbing rhythmically, up and down across my clit; up and down.

"You like that, don't you?" she asked, needlessly.

I moaned a whispered "Yes."

She switched abruptly, rubbing side to side. "And this? Do you like this?" I squeaked something like an affirmative sound. "Ah, but you like it better this way, don't you?" she continued. Up and down, up and down. 

"Aaaa."

"How about this?" Circles. She rubbed little circles rapidly around the clit. "That's the way I like it best. Do you?"

A squeak. How intelligent I was sounding!

"No, I think this is what you like best." Up and down. Up and down. "Yes, this is the best way for you!"

Now the noises issuing from me were beyond description. I wanted to explain to her that this was the point at which I usually paused, making the growing orgasm wait, keeping it just exactly there; just at the place where I could control it, rather than it controlling me. But, of course, I had no control over anything in this case. Don't hold back, she'd said, as if I had any say in the matter. I was long past any type of control. Up and down. Oh my God, this was going to be a big one! Up and down. 

The orgasm gripped me hard. It had never been like this. Never. My body seemed to be moving of its own accord, arching, straining, bucking, humping up at her hand. Her mouth was making laughing sounds around my nipple. I suddenly realized that I'd thrown my arms around her neck and was holding her there against my breast, smothering her, and I let go, collapsing on my back. I couldn't seem to get enough air into my lungs. Gently, she rested her cheek against my chest, and I put my arms around her shoulders, marveling at the feel of her. We stayed like that for a long time.

"We need to get dressed," she said softly. "You need to get back to work."

"Oh, No!" I protested, suddenly coming back to life. "We have plenty of time, and besides, we can't leave like this! A little reciprocity is in order." I moved her off of me and onto her back.

"It's later than you think," she smiled up at me. "We've been in here over an hour." I was really shocked at that. I must have been out of it for quite awhile during the little candle ritual.

"Donna can handle the desk for a little longer," I urged. I realized that if she pressed the point, she could make me leave now, without pleasing her. She could make me do anything! But I wasn't sure I could cope with the thought of not returning the pleasure she had given me. "It's a school holiday," I reasoned. "She isn't too busy. She'll understand. Please! Please let me please you!" Man, that sounded corny, and I never, ever would have imagined I'd be saying it to another woman. 

When she started to say something else, I kissed her quickly, deeply. I began to explore her body the way she had done mine, petting here and there, and finally stroking between her legs. She held them together, but, I thought, reluctantly so; and when I stopped kissing her abruptly and moved my mouth to her perfect breast, she finally relented and spread herself for me. I had her then, and knew what she wanted, tracing quick, tight little circles around her clitoris. She arched up at me.

"Harder. Suck harder," she ordered, and I was overjoyed to obey. And that was it. In less than a minute, she was coming hard, but as I kept up my merciless double-assault with mouth and fingers, she seemed to ride the orgasm for a long, long time. Just as I thought it might be over, she would gasp and groan and arch back into the seemingly endless upward spiral of sexual release. I never guessed that a woman could cum so much. When I finally stopped, she was weak, panting, mumbling incoherent little exclamations. It was my turn to rest my head on her chest, to hold her, love her. This was bliss.

"Now!" she ordered at last. "Up! Get dressed!" I obeyed, of course, but not before kissing her again. 

I finished before she did, and stood watching as she adjusted her clothing. She seemed distracted for a moment, lost in indecision. Finally, she made up her mind, checked to make sure her clothes were straight, and faced me. "Molly, I need to do one more thing. I shouldn't tell you what or why, but I want you to know that it's not just for myself."

I looked at her seriously. "You can do anything," I told her. "I trust you."

This had the opposite effect I'd hoped for. She started to cry again.

"I need to make you forget this," she told me gently.

"This?" I asked, not comprehending for a moment. "You mean ... this? Us?" I really lost it. My throat began to clutch in sympathy as soon as I saw her tears, and now my own began to flow freely. Could she actually do such a thing? Erase something so significant from my memory?

"No!" I blurted. "Please! Oh, Jean, why?"

"It's not for me!" she told me, pleadingly. "It's for my sister!"

I was really confused now. "Jo?" I asked, but she shook her head, crying all the harder. "Which one?" I demanded.

"There's another one," Jean continued. "A fifth one. One you haven't met ... yet. It's for her. Her life depends on it, Molly. Please help me!"

That calmed me. Of course, I'd do anything for Jean. Anything! I took a deep breath and tried to regain some slight control. "But why do I have to forget?" I asked, calmly. "Jean, I think I love you."

Jean sniffed a few times. "It won't be for long," she said earnestly. "Just for a couple days. I promise you'll remember this and more, in just two more days. I give you my word." (More?)

"I don't think you could ever make me forget the way I feel now," I said flatly.

She seemed to control herself then, standing straighter, with purpose. "Look at me now, Molly," she ordered, and when I had, she continued. "In my eyes. That's it. Now relax, my love." And the few inevitable words of Latin, and the world seemed to twist around me. Dizzy, I fell against her, and she held me, strong, steady. She said something else, but the words were lost, somehow, and then she said: "Are you feeling any better, now?"

"I don't know what happened," I told her, standing up again and shaking my head. "I think I must have fainted for a moment."

"You look fine, now," she responded. "We should really be getting back. Thank you so much for helping me with the research."

I couldn't seem to remember much about the research, but that didn't seem very important at all. She took my arm, and together, we made our way back through the stacks and up to the main reading room. It felt good to be close to her like this. I liked her. I liked her a lot. Disturbingly, though, I was beginning to have unsettling feelings about her; sexual feelings. That had never happened to me before, and I found it both repugnant and intoxicating at the same time. 

Donna greeted us like long, lost friends. Jean chatted with her for a few minutes, then told us she had to be going.

"I meant to ask you before," Donna said. "Are you two related? You look so much alike! You could be sisters!"

And Donna and I stood speechless as Jean burst into tears and rushed through the front door toward the street.



A Story of Jane Ch. 03



A Story Of Jane (In The First-Person Singular)

Chapter Three

FRIDAY, the 20th of MARCH

Ever since I had come to work in this town, Fridays had always been my favorite time. It had become more so recently, of course, since the evolution of my little sexual fantasy, but the whole day had become a bit of a ritual. I got up late on Fridays, since I went in late and stayed late to close up the library. That meant starting the day with a leisurely breakfast at home and reading the newspaper over coffee. Today's news wasn't really "news" at all. That was okay by me. A slow news day meant less strife to report in the world. There were stories about preparations for the Pope's Easter mass; the vernal equinox, which would occur at precisely 10:21 a.m. (local time) tomorrow, and during which eggs may or may not stand up on end; and tomorrow's full moon, the "Sugar Moon," or "Sap Moon," according to Native American tribes up here in the northern tier of states, when trees arise from the dead and begin their annual cycle. Nothing about terrorists. Nothing about wars. Slow news is good news.

A late morning workout at the "Y" was a prelude to a quick shower, and off I went to work. All day, I plotted for the evening. By late afternoon, I'd decided on Caesar salad-in-a-bag, a tomato to throw in, a loaf of fresh sourdough (Friday was baking day at the grocery), and a bottle of Chardonnay that I had discovered the previous week. I was arguing with myself whether to get fresh fruit and yogurt for breakfast or bacon, cheese and eggs for weekend omelets. I hadn't had bacon in ... I couldn't even remember the last time. Would it be too much to carry through the alley? 

The alley. Thoughts of the alley always brought a quickening of the pulse, a mild shortness of breath, and, if I continued these perverted thoughts too long, sweat. I realized how dangerous this fascination was, how repulsive it was to almost all women, how repulsed I should be by the very topic. Maybe it was the danger that was the real magnet for my thoughts. I'd never really done anything dangerous. Was that the thing that started the adrenaline flowing? I liked to think so; but deep down inside, I knew that the thing I really craved was not danger, but the total loss of control. How intoxicating I found the concept! But walking down that alley went beyond rational feelings. This was insane, and I knew it! Still, I also knew that I'd be doing it again soon (I glanced at the clock – just one more hour!), and I loved the feeling; loved the way my skin tingled and my stomach knotted in uncertainty. Oh God, I was horny!

I tried to rationalize things as I began the long process of closing up the library: putting the various periodical carts away, checking the emergency exits and windows, stacking the last-minute books for sorting by tomorrow's 2-person volunteer staff. The chances of my actually getting raped in that alley (or anywhere else in this town) were exceedingly small. I'd buy my groceries, just like I always did, walk down that stupid alley, just like always, and then ... and then I'd be home and start the long ritualistic process that would eventually culminate in one of those massive Friday-night orgasms. Oh, I needed that. Would seven o'clock never come?

When it finally did, I had to stop myself from sprinting across the street to the market. Control, I thought - I still have it. Slowly, purposefully, I walked across and into the store. I shopped slowly, too, taking my time selecting the salad items, the loaf of bread. I had long since decided on the bacon and eggs, and lingered over the selection of sharp cheese for the omelet. As I walked into the wine section, I noticed a man – a large, scruffy-looking man with wild eyes, staring at me, but I chose to ignore him. We did get a transient or two in town now and then, and I even saw them in the library sometimes, but the local sheriff discouraged outsiders rather aggressively. I ignored the guy's open stare, got the last remaining bottle of the Chardonnay from the shelf, and took everything to the counter to check out. I caught sight of the man again, peeking (leering?) around an aisle at me as I was paying. 

He wasn't the stuff fantasies are made of, and as I walked out with the bag of groceries, I hesitated. Don't be stupid, I told myself. Go around the block. Stupid, reckless, insane ... I turned right, and then quickly right again down the alley - too quickly for him to see me. He couldn't know I was there! There hadn't been time for him to see! Oh, this was so crazy! The feelings that coursed through me are practically indescribable. I always felt this way a little bit, I guess: the butterflies, the slight sense of panic, the knowledge that I might be taken – be forced to do things ... things like those in the magazine. But now ... oh, this was terror! I felt ... alive! Not just alive; I felt the deep-rooted need to STAY alive that is inherent in all animals.

And then I heard it ... footsteps! Heavy footsteps behind me. It was like something out of a bad movie, except for one very important difference: I didn't run. I could have; I kept telling myself that I could, that I should; but suddenly my mind began thinking very terrible things. All at once I realized that I deserved this. This was my punishment for thinking all these horrid thoughts, for wanting to feel this way, for wondering about things that no "good" girl should consider. For all my sins, I was about to receive my just deserts. I didn't look around, forced myself to stare straight ahead, forced myself to walk at a normal pace, but behind me the footsteps were definitely getting closer. His (her? No, definitely too heavy to be a woman's) steps were slower, heavier, but absolutely getting closer, so he must have a longer stride. A big man. The scruffy-looking transient.

To my amazement, I was suddenly through the alleyway. I didn't even look left and right, I just continued straight ahead, across the deserted street toward my house. With a lump in my throat the size of my fist, I realized that the footsteps were still there, closer than ever. He was right behind me!

I keep my house key on a little snap inside my purse, and in a second, the key was in my hand. Could I use it as a weapon? I could spin around and stab him with it! But instead, without hesitation, I extended my hand as I got to the door, shoved it into the keyhole, and turned. I deserve this, I told myself. For my sins, I deserve this! As I twisted the knob, he reached me, pressed against me, and pushed me into the foyer.

I dropped the bag and spun to face him. The door slammed. It was him: the big, unshaven man from the grocery. A sound welled up into my throat and froze at the sight of him. He was massive, at least six-two, and maybe 250 pounds, and he looked solid. His eyes were wild, savage things that raked up and down my body, inexplicably stopping most often at my face instead of my chest, where most male eyes tended to settle. He tried to speak, but choked on the first word, tried again, and finally muttered "Bedroom."

I blinked. This wasn't right at all. This wasn't my fantasy man, wasn't anything like I wanted my fantasy to be. "Don't hurt me," I pleaded foolishly.

He took a step toward me, and suddenly all the common sense flooded back into me. I tried to yell, but no sound would come, and I spun around to run – run as fast as I could; but with the quickness of a cat, his arm was around me and he pulled me into his solid body. His arm was just below my chest, and he lifted me off the floor as if I were a rag doll. I struggled for a moment, but quickly saw the utter hopelessness of any resistance at all.

"Bedroom," he croaked. Terrified, I pointed down the hall, and he carried me in that direction.

He flipped on the light, set me down in the middle of the small room and looked around. I looked around, too. I couldn't make it past him to the hall. The window? Not a chance. I might make the bathroom, but could I get the door closed in time? And what then? He would be able to break in easily. 

He turned to the bed and peeled back the bedspread and sheet, then faced me and continued assaulting me with those eyes. Again, he seemed more interested in my face than in any of my other features. He seemed to try to speak again, but something seemed wrong. Either he couldn't find the words he wanted, or he lacked the ability of speech. Was he mentally handicapped? An emotional problem or speech impediment? Finally, he seemed to give up the ordeal of communication, and simply said "Strip."

The word knocked the breath out of me. I stood and stared, disbelieving, shaking with rage and fear and indignation and hopelessness and all the other things a woman was suppose to feel during a sexual assault. I began to cry. I shook my head. "Please," I begged weakly. "Please don't do this to me." 

But he just stood there. Again, I sensed that he wanted to communicate something to me, but lacked the power. Crying openly, I began unbuttoning my blouse. "Promise me you won't hurt me," I sobbed. "I'll do anything, but don't hurt me, please!" But his only response was to begin taking off his own clothes.

I forced myself to keep going, taking off each piece of clothing and letting it fall at my feet. I made no pause at the bra, simply unsnapped it, dropped it, and bent to remove my shoes and socks. Get it over with, I thought to myself. Just do it and get it over with and hope he doesn't kill you. After the panties were gone, I stood there, eyes downcast, waiting, shaking, crying. But when I realized he had stopped moving as well, I finally raised my eyes and gasped. He was all muscle. A bodybuilder, perhaps? He appeared to be sculpted, something off the cover of a cheap romance novel, every housewife's wet dream. All except the eyes, that is, which were still wild and panicky. He looked like a trapped animal, undecided whether to attack or try to escape. My eyes were naturally drawn to the implement of the assault, but his cock was not erect ... large, but not erect.

At last, he seemed to find his voice. "Get in bed, please," he said, matter-of-factly. This really confused me, and when I didn't respond quickly enough, he took a step forward. I immediately moved to the bed and slid in, kneeling, facing him.

"Lie down, please." His voice was now smooth and polite, and something else. Weary, I suppose. I stretched out, facing him.

"Roll over." 

Reluctantly, I rolled onto my right side, facing the wall and the curtained window. My knees were drawn up slightly, and I tucked my right arm under my head. I didn't like not being able to see what was coming. Was he going to hit me? I was still crying, and my body was shivering uncontrollably. The light went off. I was wracked by a sudden sob. This is it! Oh my God, I'm about to be raped, I thought.

The bed moved under his weight, and then I felt the sheet being drawn up over me. At the same time, he began settling his body against mine, pressing his chest against my back, his legs against the back of my thighs, his lap into my back side. The bottoms of my feet were on the tops of his. I could feel his cock, large and warm, pressed into my buttocks. He pushed his massive left arm under mine, reached across my chest, and took my right breast in his left hand, pulling me back against him. We lay like that for many long seconds. My crying seemed to halt of its own accord as I held my breath, waiting ... waiting. And what happened then sent my mind reeling.

"I am not going to insult your intelligence by requesting that you relax," he said in a soft voice next to my ear. "But I am going to ask that you try to remain very still. I won't hurt you. Please, just try to be as still as you can."

And that was all. He just held me like that, snuggling into my back, breathing softly into my hair. I absolutely could not imagine that steady, soft, sophisticated voice coming from the bear of a man that had carried me into the bedroom and then looked at me with those savage eyes. I waited, not moving at all, trying to sense somehow what was going to happen next. With growing dread, I realized that his cock was growing along the crack of my ass, thickening and hardening, but he made no move to use that weapon. His arm was heavy, and from time to time, his fingers tightened slightly around my breast. He held me the way a small child would hold a teddy bear. I tried desperately to puzzle through this. Was he going to rape me or not? If he didn't, would I feel relieved? Violated? Frustrated?

His breathing grew more gentle, more regular, and I was appalled to realize that he was asleep. Carefully, I tried to turn slightly to look at him. His hand instinctively tightened again around the breast, and he pulled me back into him, cuddling against me. He said "Jane" into my ear, then settled again, breathing normally again. Jane? He was still very hard, pressed into my crack, and I didn't want to disturb him ... didn't want him to wake up and rape me. Did I? My head was spinning. I tried to slow my own breathing and think about what was happening, what he really wanted, how I really felt. I closed my eyes and tried to will myself to stay calm. This couldn't last forever, could it?

I jerked suddenly. In a swift, guilty moment, I realized I had been asleep myself! How long? We were still lying in the same position, like two spoons stacked in a drawer. His left hand still cradled my breast, but his cock was soft now, though still large and warm. Slowly, carefully, I lifted my head and looked at the alarm clock on the dresser. Eleven-thirty! We'd been like this for more than three hours!

Carefully, I lifted my hand and felt his arm. It was covered in soft hair, and even in sleep, it was taught and muscular. Slowly, I slid my hand up, along his arm, toward his hand. I stroked it softly, hoping he would loosen his grip and allow my escape. What the ...? There it was, on the third finger of his left hand. Why had it never occurred to me that he might be married? In slow, measured degrees, my anger rose. The asshole! He cheats on his wife by raping other women? What kind of slime-bucket would ...? Before I realized what I was doing, I'd grasped the hand and pulled. He jerked awake.

"What?" he said loudly. At first, he pulled me more tightly into his body, but then he sort of jumped back away from me. He let go of my breast at last, and I rolled out of bed and stood facing him. In the darkness, he looked up at me, bewildered. "I ... What ...."

"I need to use the bathroom," I said. For a very long moment, we were still, just looking at each other. Then, without another word, I turned, walked into the bathroom, and shut the door.

I flipped on the light and tried to adjust my eyes to the harsh glare. Almost as an afterthought, I reached out and locked the door. I took a step backwards until my bare butt touched the cold porcelain sink, and I stood gazing, wondering if he would come after me. The door was of light construction, and wouldn't be of much use if he really wanted to get in. The more I thought about it, the more confused I became about the entire situation. If he wanted to rape me, why hadn't he done it? He'd certainly been "up" for it. Did he break into women's houses just to cop a feel? And why was I so incredibly angry? What difference did it make if a violent criminal was married?

After awhile, I became fixated on the thought that I had to go back out there; that if I didn't, he would surely come in and get me. When I came to this realization, I suddenly felt rushed. I really DID have to use the bathroom, and I quickly walked to the toilet and relieved myself. I flushed it more as a sound effect and means to stall for time than for sanitation purposes. I hurried to the medicine cabinet and started looking for a weapon; anything that might inflict pain. I passed up an emery board, toothbrush, roll of dental floss, and mascara applicator in favor of a pair of fingernail scissors. Small and pointed, they might just give me a chance to flee. Then, despite the fact that I'd pressed my naked body against his for hours, I took a large bath towel and wrapped it around me, hiding my body from chest to slightly below my crotch. I opened the door and stepped out, the scissors clutched in a hand behind my back, and I faced my attacker.

In the light from the bathroom, I saw that he was still naked, and was sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, his head buried in his hands. When he heard me come in, he looked up as if surprised to see me.

"You should call the police," he said evenly.

"What?" I had come back into the room in hopes of finding some means to gain the upper hand, and this threw me back into a state of confusion.

"The police," he said. "What I've done to you is ... abhorrent. I could never begin to explain ...." His voice caught, and rather than let me see tears, he lowered his head again. "Go call them. I won't stop you."

I stood, transfixed. "But why?" I insisted. "Why did you ...."

He took a moment to steady himself, then looked back up at me. "I needed to sleep," he said simply, as if that made any sense at all. "I haven't slept in ... months. Not REALLY slept, at least. Sometimes, I ... I think I might have slept a little, but, well, I'm not really sure, you see."

"Needed to sleep?" I asked, my anger rising again. "Have you tried going home to your wife?"

"Wife?" he said, startled. He thought a moment, then looked back at his hands. He began twisting the wedding ring, lost in thought. "Wife ...."

"Your wife, Jane," I said, accusingly.

If I had thought this might have some effect, I grossly underestimated. He sprang to his feet and glared at me with those wild, crazy eyes again. I had frightened him, frightened him badly. He backed up a step and hit the wall, making a picture rock precariously on its hanger. The sudden movement made me bring the scissors in front of me, holding them in what I imagined to be a threatening pose. He glanced at them, and then obviously dismissed them. He wasn't concerned with the stupid scissors. It was ME he was afraid of.

"How? ... How did you ...."

I wanted desperately to defuse this terrible tension. "You said her name in your sleep," I said as softly as I could. 

He seemed to think about this for a moment, then accepted it. All the emotion seemed to drain from him in an instant, and he stepped back to the bed and sat down heavily.

"Why don't we forget the police?" I said, trying to placate him. Time enough for the police later. "Why don't you go home to your wife?"

"Home?" he asked. He smiled up at me sadly. "No, I'm afraid she isn't at home."

"She left you?" I asked. That made sense. She left the asshole!

"Left me?" he repeated. He looked as if he might laugh or cry. "Yes ... yes, she left me," he whispered softly. There was infinite sadness in his voice.

And suddenly, I knew the answer to at least part of the riddle of this man. With an immediate and total cessation of all anger, I looked at him in an entirely new way.

"Oh," I said softly. "She's dead."

"You look like her!" he said, looking up, gesturing with his hands. "You ... you look just like her. You could be her twin! I saw you, and I thought to myself: It can't be her! I knew you weren't her! But then I got this incredibly stupid idea. Maybe with you I could sleep a little. We always slept like ... like you and I were there in bed. Together like that! I know it's crazy! It doesn't make any sense at all, but it's been like that for months, you see. Ever since the accident, I haven't been able to sleep, and when I saw you, I thought, 'If I can just make her lie with me like that for a little while, maybe I could sleep, just a little.' But of course, no woman would agree to such a thing! I didn't want to use force or threaten you, but ... but ...."




A Story of Jane Ch. 03



He was crying.

Now, there is absolutely nothing that will melt a girl's heart like the sight of a strong man showing his weak side. I will never be able to tell you why I did what I did then, but at the time, it just seemed like the right thing to do. All I know is that I have never felt such a sense of pure, utter, overwhelming compassion. I dropped the scissors on the dresser, walked over to face him, reached up and undid the towel. As it fell to my feet, he raised his eyes to mine with a questioning look, and then let them settle on my breasts. I smiled. The guy was normal, after all.

I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed gently. It was like pushing against a mountain. "I know how to make you sleep," I said softly.

He looked a little panicked. I pushed a little harder, with the same result. Nothing was going to move this guy if he didn't want to be moved.

"Please," I urged. "Let me help you. Please? She's gone. I'm sorry your wife is gone ... but tonight, just tonight, I'll help you sleep. Please."

He seemed to give in all at once. He let me push him back, then reluctantly twisted around as I tried to lift his feet, and finally he ended up just where I wanted him, flat on his back in the middle of the bed. I crawled in beside him and mounted him in one easy movement, like a cowboy in an old western swinging up onto his horse. I lay down atop him, pressing my chest to his (why hadn't I noticed how hairy he was?), flattening my breasts against him like two compressed water balloons. Reaching down between my legs, I located him easily, and was more than a little dismayed to find him stiffening considerably. I had wanted to get him inside me before he got too large, but I found I was too late, already. Gently, I rubbed the tip of his cock up and down the length of my slit, trying desperately to get at least a part of him into me. I gasped loudly as I inadvertently rubbed him against my clit. When had I gotten so wet? I found myself sopping, and the massive pole seemed to slide all around, eluding the prize in some sort of slippery contest. Finally, the tip of it was in. I moaned and buried my face into the side of his neck. In his need, he grasped my hips and started pulling me down on him.

"Oh, please!" I groaned. "It's ... it's been a long time. Please go slowly. Please be gentle!"

He stopped pulling me, but I could tell he was frustrated, and I tried to push myself down farther onto him. My God, he was big! I felt impaled. There seemed to be no friction, only a tightness, as I was stretched and stretched and stretched by the slick intruder. He let me work on the situation on my own, slowly and steadily for awhile, but then he couldn't take it any longer and put his strong hands on my buttocks again. He forced himself steadily into me. I made a series of little "Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!" sounds as my body was filled far beyond the extent I thought possible. And then his pubic hair was grinding against mine.

"I did it!" I moaned. "I got you in!" I felt a tremendous feeling of accomplishment.

He waited a few moments to let me get used to the feel of him, and then, holding my hips, he slowly lifted me effortlessly several inches and let go. When I didn't immediately let myself fall back to the full bottom of the stroke, he grasped me again and pulled me down. Steadily, slowly, he helped me establish a rhythm. My body was beginning to respond in ways I had forgotten these past two years (but then, I had never been very coherent when I'd had sex before). 

I remembered how I had longed so for an orgasm while daydreaming in the library earlier in the day. Now, I was just starting to build toward one when he groaned loudly, stammered an apology, and stiffened. I moaned as well, as his cock swelled even larger and began to jerk spastically inside of me. I felt the liquid hitting the walls of my womb (I hadn't known it was possible to feel that!), and we clutched each other as he continued to spend in the depths of my body. Finally, we lay together, breathing hard.

That's when it started. 

Now, what I felt was so strange that I doubt you'll believe me. It's certainly very hard to describe, but I'll do my best. It began as a sort of crawling tingle, originating where I had felt the cum splashing inside me. It was a warm, living sensation, and it started to spread, both up my body, into my stomach, and downward, into my cunt. It felt good, very good, but because it was something wholly new, it made me feel weak and afraid, as well. 

It made its way down into my ass and upper thighs, and up into my chest and breasts. Wherever it had been, it stayed, but it spread onward, also. Then suddenly, it was in my shoulders and upper arms, my knees and my calves. My arms became weak and warm and wonderful, and then my hands and feet, as well. I was beginning to panic, and lifted my head to tell this strange man that there was something terribly wrong with me, but I saw a peculiar, startled look in his blue eyes (why had I just now noticed they were blue?). The next thing I knew, the feeling was in my neck and mouth, and I couldn't tell him, couldn't make my mouth work, and my neck would no longer support my head. I rested it on his chest as this ... this ... thing made its way into my mind. I saw the tingle behind my eyes, saw the warmth swirling within me, draining me.

I slept. 



A Story of Jane Ch. 04



Chapter Four

SATURDAY, the 21st of MARCH - EQUINOX

I awoke to find myself in the old position. Spoons. His hand on my breast again. I felt him all along the back of me. I was too weak to face the task of thought, so I drifted off again.

Then, once more we were like spoons, but this time, I was on the outside, nuzzling against his back and ass and legs, pressing into him. I loved sleeping like this!

When next I opened my eyes, he was on his back and my head was nestled into his shoulder, my leg thrown across his waist, his arm wrapped around me. Sunshine was coming through the window. Slowly, carefully, I disentangled myself and sat up, looking down on my sleeping giant. The fact that I was in love with this man washed over me like a tidal wave. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. I felt giddy and drunk and alive and amazingly happy. But then the sadness and uncertainty began to gnaw at me, an empty ache in my stomach. How could I feel this much love for such a man? I didn't know the first thing about him. And more to the point, how would he feel about me? Little doubt about that! I was just a one-night stand!

I think the only thing that kept me from sobbing out loud at that instant was the fact that I didn't want to wake him up. The tears came, though. Crying silently, I got up and walked into the bathroom. There, I collected my body soap, toothbrush, douche bag, and shampoo, and quietly padded down the hall to the guest bathroom. I figured I'd clean up in there and let him sleep. Lord knows, I needed it. I reeked of stale sex, and there was dried cum all along my thighs. After setting out my cleaning things in the other bathroom, I tiptoed back in to get a nightgown and robe.

I had to stop and look at him for a long, long time. I tried to memorize every feature. When he was gone, I wanted to remember him ... all of him. This made the tears come again, and I eased to my closet and chose my favorite silk robe, my "Friday night robe." I decided against a nightgown. I think I had begun a fantasy of possibly luring him into staying. On the way out, I picked up his dirty clothes, which weren't nearly as scruffy as I'd thought the night before, and I put them in the washing machine in the laundry room. I was surprised to find a cell phone in the pocket of the jeans, and I set that on the kitchen table. In the foyer, I surveyed the damage of the dropped groceries, and found that six of the eggs had survived. I cleaned up the mess, and put everything in the refrigerator. At first, I was surprised that it was only six-thirty in the morning, but then I realized that we'd started our strange evening pretty early. 

In the guest bathroom, I cleaned myself thoroughly, spending almost half an hour in the bath, daydreaming and plotting, giving up one idea after another, and finally crying again. At last, I settled on the idea of having breakfast ready for him when he woke up, and if he stayed a little while, well ....

The robe is one of those short, thin, sexy things that is really the only true extravagance I had indulged in since I'd come to the town. It fell against my body almost like a liquid, and was cool and clingy. When I fashioned it by wrapping it between my breasts and around me, like I did now, it seemed to accentuate my assets to perfection. But then, of course, no one else had ever seen me wearing it. Maybe he'd like me a little.

In the medicine cabinet, there were six one-month containers of birth control pills that had not been used in almost exactly two years. I popped three of them out of their little foil holders and looked at them in my palm. I'd read that this was the equivalent of a "morning after" pill. I hesitated, thinking. If last night's episode did result in my being pregnant, would that mean I'd be able to see him later? Could I do that to him? Did I love him so much that I'd use that to hold him? Oh, yes, I thought. That much and a lot more. I loved him enough to let him go, if that's what he wanted. I threw the pills into my mouth and washed them down with a gulp of tap water.

Clothes in the dryer, coffee pot started, bacon frying, and I thought I heard him moving around in the bedroom. Rats! I had meant to go watch him sleep some more. I heard the toilet flush, and I began grating some cheese. Oh, please! Please let him stay for breakfast, I prayed. I was taking the bacon out of the pan and setting it on paper towels to drain when he walked up behind me and grabbed me around the waist. I squealed, dropped the fork, and spun in his arms. And just like that, he was kissing me. I stood there, stunned, for a long moment, then quite naturally put my arms around his neck and kissed him back. It went on forever. When he broke the kiss, I was shivering and panting, and gazing into those incredibly blue eyes for some hint that he really meant this.

"I want something, and I want it now," he told me sternly.

I actually batted my eyes. Gawd! How romantic! "And what might that be?" I said huskily.

"Your name."

I barked a laugh. "Molly Mahone."

"Herman Benson," he replied, letting go of me and stepping back so abruptly that I almost reeled against the hot stove. He thrust his right hand out toward me. "Glad to meet you, Molly."

I laughed again, and we shook hands. He didn't let go, and instead, pulled me toward him, embraced me, and kissed me again. The smoke alarm went off (no, not from the kiss; the pan of bacon grease was still on the burner), and he busied himself removing the battery while I took the pan off the stove. We were laughing hysterically, and when we finally had everything out of the panic mode, he kissed me yet again, then scooped me up in his arms and carried me back into the bedroom.

He had been wearing the same bath towel I had put on the night before, but we made short work of it, as well as the slinky robe that I had taken such pains to arrange just right. His hands were really very adept, despite their size, at making intricate little caresses and pinches and squeezes. He was incredibly strong, and I made no resistance as he positioned my legs apart for the access he wanted. He had the strangest little thing that he did with his teeth and lips and tongue around my right nipple, and as he kept doing it and doing it and doing it, he stroked up and down my slit and against my clit just right, and suddenly I was begging him to please, please stop, because I wanted him to be inside me when I came.

He rolled atop me and positioned himself at my opening. I braced myself for a brutal assault, but he was remarkably gentle, if strongly persistent. I had to reach between us and grasp his massively erect cock and guide it to my sopping opening. I don't think I've ever been so wet. His cock slithered wildly around my cunt, making me jump and gasp when it touched my clit. I tried to stammer an apology, but he was suddenly kissing me again. 

Just like last night, I was filled almost to bursting, then filled some more, and I reveled at my accomplishment when he was fully inside me. He moved in and out of me with long, slow strokes for a full minute, then effortlessly lifted my hips up off the bed and rocked back into a kneeling position. From there, he could reach down and rub around my clit, and I was right at the edge of orgasm again immediately. Instead of settling for this, though, I decided he wasn't deep enough in this new position, so I sat up with him and wrapped my legs around him, burying him farther up inside of me than I ever thought was possible. I was losing all control rapidly. 

He had his hands filled with my buttocks, and he was moving me up and down on his cock like a piston in an engine. I thought suddenly again of the strange feeling of the night before. Had it been some bizarre sort of orgasm? Would I feel it again? I didn't have long to wait to find out; and suddenly, I was certain. Whatever the feeling had been, it hadn't been an orgasm. This, oh THIS, was an orgasm! The muscles inside my cunt seemed to be doing things all on their own, griping and releasing him mercilessly. I felt him swelling within me, and then he was arching his back, coming with me. He was pounding me. I was crying out with the rhythm of it. Oh, this was wonderful!

We collapsed in a tangled, gasping heap on the bed and just held each other for the longest time, studying one another's faces and bodies. I never knew it was possible to be so totally, utterly, completely in love.

At last he said, "I do believe I am famished." Now that he mentioned it, so was I. I hadn't had any dinner last night. I got up to get dressed, but he insisted I wear the robe again. I ran to get his clothes out of the dryer, then finished breakfast as he poured the coffee. For the next two hours, we talked constantly.

He wanted to know everything about me, and asked a thousand questions about my job, my parents, my childhood, this house (which was a short-term rental while the owners were abroad), and a dozen other things. 

He talked openly about himself, too, and when the conversation solemnly drifted to Jane, his wife (which was inevitable, of course), he seemed almost glad to finally talk about what had happened and his feelings about her. He'd kept the whole thing bottled up inside for months. He had loved her completely, totally. They'd been married less than a year when the accident happened. She had been driving too fast on a rainy morning, and unable to stop in time for a red light, went skidding through an intersection and into the path of an oncoming truck. 

He had never been able to find out why she had been at that particular intersection at all; why she had even been driving that morning, since she had told him she was going to stay home all day. She had been in a coma for almost two days before she finally died in the hospital, never having regained consciousness. He hadn't been with her at the time of her death; he'd gone home exhausted for a little sleep, and he still hadn't forgiven himself for not being there at the end. Her sisters had been with her, though. He was at least thankful for that, but thinking back on it now, the guilt from having gone home for rest and not being there for her at the end may well have been the cause of the terrible insomnia that followed.

After we'd talked about her, I felt the weight of obligation had been lifted from the conversation, and we spoke of lighter matters, joking and actually holding hands across the breakfast table. Herman (I would never have guessed that would be his name - he looked nothing like a "Herman") had a Master's Degree in Philosophy, believe it or not. Oddly enough, though, there weren't that many openings in the slow job market for philosophers, so instead, he earned a remarkably good living installing swimming pools in the wealthier neighborhoods of Chicago. That was almost a two hour drive from here, and it took me awhile to learn how it was he had come to be here at all. Somehow, someone here in town had gotten a recommendation from a prior customer and offered to pay an exorbitant amount of money for one of his pools. The offer was contingent on a personal meeting, which was arranged for ten o'clock this morning.

When we began cleaning up the breakfast dishes, I was mortified to notice a spot on the kitchen chair I'd been sitting in, and was even more embarrassed when he noticed it, too. His juices were leaking out of me. I told him that I simply HAD to go clean up, but he grabbed me and told me that there was really no need to clean something that was just going to be used again so soon. He held me, and I pointed out that the clock was rapidly approaching ten o'clock, but he told me to get my priorities straight, and we started a bit of a one-sided wrestling match, in which I more or less participated for the sole enjoyment of surrendering.

That's when his cell phone rang. At first, he wasn't going to answer it, but when he remembered how much money was at stake in his little business deal here, he relented. Indeed, it was the customer, who was calling to make sure he was on his way. I could hear her voice from where I was standing, and I cocked my head a little, listening to the tone more than the conversation. Where had I heard that voice before? It sounded very familiar.

He switched off the phone and apologized to me. He held me and kissed me (which was nice) and told me that he would be back (which was even nicer), and then he was gone.

I stared at the door after he'd left. I tried to think of any time in my life that I had ever been happier, and I was forced to admit that this was the best. Whatever he decided to do about "us" after he returned, this was the one, true love of my life. I thought about that as I dumped the dishes in the sink and finally started toward the bathroom to clean up. The doorbell rang. Had he forgotten something?

I rushed to open the door, expecting him to tell me "to hell with the damn meeting," when I was absolutely astounded by the sight of the four sisters from the restaurant. Jo, in the lead, marched right in, took my arm and led me back through the foyer toward the living room. 

"Tell me you haven't cleaned up yet, dear," she said urgently.

"What?" I have never been more confused than I was at that moment. Jean, Jan and Jill entered the house behind us, appearing to be in a big rush. They were all carrying oversized black cloth purses.

"This is YOUR fault, Jill!" Jan was saying hotly. "We should have stayed by the side of the house and kept an eye on her! This could be the end! All this work, and we are so close!"

"We can't do ANYTHING if we're in JAIL!" Jill responded back, just as angry; two sisters in an all-out quarrel. "The neighbors saw us watching, I tell you!"

"You didn't clean yourself, did you? His stuff is still inside you, isn't it?" Jo was asking me. She sounded panicked.

"What?" I was too shocked and disoriented to answer.

Exasperated, she spun me around to face her and pulled the silk belt around my waist, tugging open my robe. I impulsively resisted, trying to hide my nakedness. With a sharp curse, she ordered me to stand still and put my arms down by my sides. I had to obey her (I HAD to!), but I didn't want to degrade myself in front of these women, and my arms quivered as if straining against some powerful force. To my utter horror and humiliation, Jo peeled the robe from my body, and I stood completely nude in front of them.

"Spread your legs a little," she ordered sharply. She was extremely upset, and it showed in her face and voice.

"Oh God, no," I pleaded. I was starting to cry. I looked frantically toward the others for help, especially, Jean, who I sensed was the nicest of the group. They had formed a tight little semi-circle in front of me, and were leaning forward expectantly. I suddenly realized that none of them was breathing. The suspense among them was profound. I moved my feet apart slightly, and Jo immediately thrust her finger between my legs and into my sex. The sound that escaped me was not so much a gasp as a sob.

"She's soaked!" Jo declared triumphantly. "She's absolutely filled to overflowing. He came through for us!"

"No pun intended," Jill muttered. They all laughed, and the tension was broken. Jo jerked her finger free of me and bent to pick up the robe. I instinctively reached to take it from her, but she ignored me, turned away, wiping her finger on it, and dropped it over the back of the couch.

"Let's go ladies!" Jo said sharply, a general leading the troops. "Get a move on! We only have ...." She hesitated, looking around the walls of the room for a clock.

"Fourteen minutes," said Jan. She wore a gold watch and chain around her neck.

What happened then is difficult to describe, since the four of them seemed to be doing all sorts of tasks; and yet the things were done in concert, as if they'd been practiced. They began by moving the couch and two easy chairs back from the center of the room. Jean even asked me to help her move the coffee table. I was still crying, but did as she told me, and when the task was complete, she came to me and put an arm around my waist, trying to calm me.

"Please let me get dressed," I begged her.

"There, there," she said, as if to a crying child. "You can't get dressed, but we'll join you, so you won't be so self conscience." As I tried to figure this statement out, I was flabbergasted to see that Jo had removed her blouse and draped it across the back of the couch next to my robe. Jean started unbuttoning hers, as well.

In the meantime, Jill had removed four rolls of white cotton surgical adhesive tape from her purse, handed them to Jan, then wildly rooted around inside the bag, looking for another. "I can't find it!" she wailed.

"You fool!" Jan chided. "We don't have time for this!"

"Here it is!" screamed Jill, exalted. Another crisis averted. Together, she and Jan began unrolling the tape, which had obviously been pre-measured and cut, and laying it out on the carpeted floor.

"Jean," I said in a low voice still heavy with my tears. "I don't understand any of this! What are you doing? Why did Jo ...." In my humiliation, I couldn't find the words. To make matters worse, Jean had just removed her bra. Her breasts were magnificent, perfectly suited to her gorgeous frame. Why did that thought seem so familiar? To my astonishment, I had to suppress a tremendous urge to reach out and touch them. 

"I don't have time to explain right now," Jean said, truly concerned about me. She finished removing her pants and underwear and stood before me, smiling sincerely. I couldn't keep my eyes from moving over her body. All my life, I had been very impatient with men who looked at me the way I was now looking at her. I blushed crimson. She held me by the shoulders at arm's length, and when I finally had control of my roving eyes, we locked gazes for several seconds. She said something I didn't understand, then slowly pulled me toward her. For a moment, I thought she was going to kiss me, but instead, just as our breasts pressed into each other's, she placed her lips to my left ear and whispered "Remember!"

And I did. Just like that, I remembered it all: the lunch on Wednesday, the "episode" with in the employees' lounge on Thursday, what I'd been forced to tell them, my feelings for the woman who was now holding me. I remembered everything.

Jean pushed me back, still facing me and clasping me by the shoulders, and studied me to make sure I was okay. I ached to hold her the way we'd done just two days ago, but now I was wracked with guilt.

"Jean," I said solemnly, "I've met a man."

She laughed out loud at this. When she saw how hurt I was at this response, she quickly got herself under control. "Yes," she said, smiling broadly. "Herman."

I was frantically searching for the smallest bit of understanding. "You know Herman?" I asked, amazed. "Is he part of ... of ... this?" I looked around the room. Jan and Jill had finished laying out a pentagram star in the middle of the room using the adhesive tape, and were now busy stripping off their clothes. Jo was fitting tall black candles in black metal holders and arranging them in some pattern in the exact center of the star.

"Yes," Jean answered. "Herman is a vital part of this, but he doesn't know it yet. I'd like to explain it to you, but we just don't have time. I just want you to know that ... that something's about to happen to you and that ... well, I'm sorry. Soon, I think you're going to hate me. But I'm sorry, Molly."

My head was spinning with unanswered questions. Jean was pulling me by the hand toward the pentagram in the center of the room, where Jill and Jo were already sitting, cross-legged, at two points of the star, and Jan was getting situated at another. Jean pointed wordlessly to my place, then took the last remaining point. I was about to protest, but Jan looked again at the watch around her neck and said "Four minutes!" and I just did as I was bid, feeling meek and very confused.




A Story of Jane Ch. 04



There were four candles spaced around a fifth in the center of the star, and Jill, to my left, picked up one of those long wooden fireplace matches, which she had arranged beside her place, lit it with a cigarette lighter, and held it in front of her. This was some sort of ritual, obviously. No one said a word as she leaned forward and lit one of outer candles, then passed the long match to her left, to Jo. Jo lit her candle and passed the match to Jan, then Jean. Now, the four outer candles were burning, but instead of passing the match to me to light the fifth, Jean blew it out and set it down behind her. Then she took my right hand in her left, while Jill took and held my other one. I was painfully aware of the differences between us: my top-heavy body next to their near-perfect ones, my red hair and pubic bush next to theirs of raven black, and worst of all, the wetness oozing from me (I dared not glance down, for fear that with my legs open in this cross-legged position, I would see what I could so well feel).

I couldn't stand it any longer. "What's happening?" I whispered in Jean's direction.

"Equinox," she replied. And then together, they all began to chant. The language was not Latin (I know now that it was Welsh), and was very strange in my ears. The phrase was ten or so words long, and repeated over and over again. To my utter amazement, I soon found my own lips moving in accompaniment, and in another minute, I was saying the words along with them, though I was not consciously doing so. It was if they were coming up out of my throat of their own accord. The center candle lighted all by itself. 

That's when I screamed. 



A Story of Jane Ch. 05



Chapter Five

SATURDAY, the 21st of MARCH - FULL MOON

Now, to tell you the truth, I'm not a screamer. I've been known to let loose with a girlish "eeek" from time to time when I'm really startled, but whether its spooky movies or haunted houses, I tend to cry or shiver rather than actually scream. This, however, was a real, honest-to-God, blood curdling shriek of scream, and I believe it surprised me more than anyone else present. Not only was it a scream, it was the first of a long line of them, and I jerked my hands free from those on either side and crossed my arms in front of my face, palms outward, as if to ward off a terrible blow. I didn't do this consciously; it just happened. 

Immediately, I felt hands on my arms and back, and heard sympathetic words of encouragement in my ears, telling me that I shouldn't panic, and that everything was going to be alright. I tried to tell them that I WASN'T panicked, and that nothing was really wrong, but I couldn't seem to get my hands to move, and I most certainly couldn't seem to stop that infernal screaming. 

Eventually, Jo, sitting in front of me, took hold of both wrists and slowly pried them apart, saying patiently, "Jane, Jane, it's okay! You're safe now, Jane! Stop! It's okay!"

The others, too, kept calling me Jane, and I tried to tell them they were confusing themselves and me as well, but I just couldn't seem to get my mouth to work. I looked around at the other very naked women, but I couldn't seem to get my head to move in the direction I wanted it to go. Finally, however, my screams stopped, and my gaze settled of its own accord on Jean. I whimpered once or twice and threw my arms around her, hugging her tightly. Or I should say that my arms flew around her all by themselves. It finally dawned on me that something was very, very wrong with my body.

"Jean!" my voice was saying. "There was an accident! There was a truck! It hit me, I'm sure! Oh, God, Jean, it was terrible!"

My voice was saying this, but I was not. I could feel everything. I could feel Jean's arms holding me, her breasts against mine, I could smell her hair, but I had no control whatsoever over what I was doing or saying.

The others were crowding around, holding me as well. Everyone was crying. Everyone but me, that is, and I could feel the tears streaming down my cheeks unbidden, as well. I wanted to say something silly to break the tension, yell "Group hug!" as a joke or something, but of course, I couldn't do anything. It's common knowledge that quite often, when something strange is happening to a person, it is the person herself that is often the last to figure it out. So it was that I finally began to realize that Jane, their Jane, the fifth sister Jane, Herman's Jane, had somehow taken firm possession of my body. And yet, I wasn't to be the last to know, after all.

(I should mention at this point that the remainder of this chapter is going to appear a bit disjointed. The warning I gave you about tense at the beginning of this narrative is slowly coming to the fore. For now, when I say that "Jane" did or said something, it's important to stress that it was MY body that did the acting, MY voice that did the speaking. The fact that "I" had no control over those actions or words was, without a doubt, the most confounding and frustrating thing that I have ever experienced. I have never been so utterly helpless.)

"I DIED?" my mouth was saying. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, and at last, Jo, the oldest and the leader, moved back and called for order.

"Jan came up with the plan," Jo was saying, as the group finally backed away from the person who had been me. "She found a spell that would hold your soul in limbo until the next equinox."

"Equinox?" asked Jane. "How long have I been ...."

"Four months!" chimed Jan and Jill, together.

"Before we go further," Jo said seriously, "we are all dying to know. The other side, Jane. You were there! Tell us! Tell us everything you remember!"

I felt my brow furrow, my eyes shift. "I ... It ... It just happened!" said Jane. "Just now! There was the truck, and I screamed ... and ... and I closed my eyes, and ... and ... I was here! There WAS nothing else!"

From the look on her face, Jo was immensely disappointed, but she tried to take this in stride and continued. "We all worked together to get you back among us," she said. "We cast the spell at the instant the spirit left your body. Jill spent weeks in Mama's library and found several ways to transfer your soul to another entity, but there was only one spell that would return you to human form. It hadn't been done in centuries! And with good cause. The donor had to be perfect, but we found her!"

"Donor?" asked my voice. My eyes moved downward. "Oh! Oh, Jean! I've got boobs!" My body jumped to its feet, and immediately, my hands began roaming over my body. The others were giggling uncontrollably. Holding a breast under each palm, my hands bounced, felt, tweaked and caressed them. "My God, they're huge! They're TWICE as big as mine!" Well, I wouldn't go THAT far. "A mirror!" Jane shouted. "Where's a mirror?" 

She began running (which is not a graceful sight when my breasts aren't restrained in a bra - they tend to bounce in all directions at once), looking first in the kitchen, then down the hall and finally into the master bedroom. The sisters, laughing, followed. There, on the back of the bathroom door, was a full length mirror, and she stopped my body in front of it, obviously enraptured by the sight of me. 

"But it IS me!" she proclaimed with my voice. "It's me with red hair and big boobs!"

As her sisters giggled, Jane made my body turn this way and that. She played with my breasts. "Do you think they're TOO big?" she worried. Then she ran my fingers through my hair, and finally dipped one of my digits into my most private part. I tried desperately to stop this process, but all my efforts had absolutely no affect on her control over me.

She removed my finger, rubbed it against my thumb, and sniffed it. "There's been a fox in my hen house," she said.

"It was HERMAN!" shouted Jill, giggling.

"Herman?" my voice questioned. "MY Herman? Herman with this woman?" My hand waved toward the mirror.

"It's all really very complicated," Jo said. "The spell Jan found was so difficult to arrange it was almost impossible. We had to find a doppelganger, a woman who was so like you she could be your twin. But it would only work if she loved, and was loved by, a man who had loved and was loved by YOU."

That took awhile to sink in. I replayed the sentence in my mind several times before I could get the gist of it.

"And Herman was in love with her?" Jane said at last, staring again at the mirror.

"Through mutual love spells," Jo continued. "Jean set it all up, casting the characters in a rather elaborate little play. She set up the woman's actions, then arranged for Herman to be in the right place at the right time. He's been pretty distraught, as you can imagine, and it was easy to guide his actions through hypnosis. He was very reluctant, but he did exactly as we'd planned. When they consummated things last night, all the elements of the process were completed, and the mutual spell took effect. Then, after they did it again this morning, we lured him away for the real spell. You see, his seed in her was the catalyst, the link between the two of you: you and this woman. We cast the spell that would bring your soul into her body at the exact moment of the equinox."

"And she was OUT, and I was IN," Jane said triumphantly through my lips, studying the mirror, running my hands up and down my sides. It took her several seconds to realize the guilt behind the look the others were giving her. "What?" she asked, facing them uncertainly. "What is it?"

Since Jo, Jan and Jill were glancing accusingly at Jean, Jane turned my head to look at her, as well. "What is it, Jean?"

Jean looked down at her feet for a few seconds, building up her courage, then shifted her gaze directly into my eyes. "She isn't out, Jane," she said resolutely. "She's still in there. She's in there with you."

My eyes blinked several times. My lips moved without sound.

Finally, Jane spoke accusingly. "You left her in here? You left her in my body?" She spun to face the mirror. She was looking directly into the eyes of the reflected woman, trying to seek me out and find me. I tried with all my might to show her that I was, indeed, in there. Nothing. I couldn't blink or shout or call her a bitch (which was what I really wanted to do). I was just along for the ride.

"Why?" she said. I could almost feel her anger. "How could you leave someone else in the body you picked for me? And someone who's been with Herman?"

"She's a good person," Jean said resolutely. "She didn't deserve to be cast out. We're not even sure where she would have gone. The spell book didn't say."

"ANYPLACE but in here with me!" My body rounded on Jean, my eyes compressed to angry slits. I've never spoken to anyone in a tone like that. Never. "How could you Jean? You love me! And how could you guys LET her talk you into it?"

"Told you so!" Jan spat at Jean.

"It took five of us to make the transfer," Jo said patiently. "The girl and the four of us, as the five points of the pentagram. Jean refused to sacrifice the girl, and we couldn't complete the spell without her. We HAD to do it this way." Jo took a deep breath. "Look," she continued. "You know Jean. She has trouble stepping on a bug! You can't really expect her to kill another human being. She kept saying that to do so would be stepping into the Black side, and maybe she's right."

"She's an innocent, Jane," Jean implored. "She really is! I've never met anyone so ... so ... sweet!"

But Jane was silent in my body, and turned back to study the reflection in the mirror once more.

"It won't be for long, anyway," Jo said, matter-of-factly. "Two individual souls can't inhabit the same body for long. It's possible to separate them on the next full moon, and that happens tonight."

That got her attention. "What?" she asked, spinning me back toward Jo. "How?"

"I have a book in my bag in the living room," Jo told me. "It's a codicil to the original spell. I found it in Mama's library yesterday before we all drove out here. You can transfer her into the body of another, or an animal, if you'd prefer; or you could just cast her out and let her soul find its own way. It's all explained in the book."

"No!" shouted Jean. "You can't do that! You promised!"

"We promised we wouldn't interfere with the original soul during the casting of the spell," Jo told her. "We never said we'd stand in Jane's way if she wanted to cast her out."

The phone rang. We all turned to look at the thing on the bedside table as it rang again. Without a word, my body walked to it and my hand picked it up. "Hello?" Jane spoke through my voice.

"Molly?"

Without answering, my head turned to the four staring sisters, and I felt my lips form the silent word "Molly?" toward them. Of course! She didn't know her own name! None of them had used it since the spell had been cast. Jill and Jan nodded furiously.

"Molly?" the voice on the phone said again into the silence.

"Herman?" Jane cried. "Herman, is that you?"

"Molly, I can't believe it! This whole meeting I was suppose to have seems to have been some sort of hoax! I'm way out in the country somewhere, and the place this lady told me to meet her doesn't even to exist. I made the whole trip for nothing! Ah ... no, that's not quite right. I did happen to meet you! I'm coming back there to pick up where we left off. I can be there in twenty minutes."

Jane couldn't seem to think of anything to say.

"Molly?"

"Yes!" said my voice at last. "Yes, come back soon! I want you, Herman!"

"Make that fifteen minutes!" he said, and the line went dead.

"Herman's coming," Jane told the others as my hand put down the phone. "He'll be here in fifteen minutes."

The entire congregation rushed back out to the living room, where the four naked females began hurriedly putting their clothes back on. Jean was pleading with first Jo, then Jane, to please, please don't sacrifice me like they had mentioned. As Jan picked up the candles and peeled the tape off the carpet, Jill enlisted Jane's help putting the sofa back where it belonged. She, of course, had no idea where things had been before the little ceremony. Finally, fully clothed, Jo pulled a large, thin, very old looking leather book from her black canvas bag and handed it to the person in my body. Several runes were pressed into its surface. 

"I've never seen this before," said Jane.

"Mama kept it locked up," Jo replied. "She didn't trust us to know she kept such things. I explained what we were trying to do here, and she said that she trusted you to make the right decision."

"No!" Jean screamed at us. "Listen to me! You can't DO this to her!" She was crying now. "Jane, please!"

Jane had my eyes scanning the surface of the book, my hands running over it in reverence. She lifted my gaze to Jean briefly. "I'll deal with YOU later," she said.

Jill took one of Jean's arms, Jan the other, and together, they physically led the sobbing woman to the front door and out of the house. "I'm sorry, Molly!" she wailed over her shoulder.

"You don't need any of us for this," Jo told me, indicating the book. "The full moon occurs at 8:52 tonight, about an hour after sunset. We'll see you when you get back home." She walked to the front door and paused, looking back at me. "Give our best to your husband."

My body laughed. "I'll give him a lot more than that!" Jane said.

Alone, she walked around the house leisurely, exploring, stopping here and there to pick up a knick-knack, setting it back down. She found the robe on the back of the couch, smiled, and tried it on my body. Back at the mirror in the bedroom, she took it off again, and studied my complexion, my hair, my hands, always returning to my breasts and playing with them idly. She got very close to the mirror's surface and stared into my eyes. "Are you in there?" she asked me. She paused a long time, looking, thinking. "You in the mood to learn a few things?" Another pause. "Stick around!" She made my mouth smile.

In the bathroom, she turned on the shower, adjusted the water temperature slightly too hot, then stepped in and stood under the spray for long seconds. Taking a bar of soap, she washed thoroughly, again taking slippery joy in soaping my breasts several times. I'd be glad when she outgrew that fascination. Between my legs, she seemed to find a spot she particularly liked. I could tell this because it was a spot that I particularly liked myself, and it was very obvious that the distraction she was forcing me to feel, she was feeling, too. 

The doorbell rang. With a twist, my hand turned off the water, and she stepped out of the tub. Ignoring the bath towels, she made my body walk down the hall to the front door, where my hand turned the knob and pulled it full open. Herman stared at me open-mouthed. Quickly, he glanced behind him to make sure there were no neighbors about, then he turned back and raked me with his eyes. I stood there, dripping, letting him leer. At last, with a voice I'd never used before, a voice oozing with sexuality, I cooed "Hermy!" and pressed my body into him, soaking him, and wrapped my arms around his neck.

He looked shocked, unsettled, for a moment, then gathered me in for a kiss. I felt good, a little dizzy, just like I did when he'd kissed me that morning in the kitchen. He scooped me up in his arms, kicked the door closed with the toe of his shoe, and carried me back into the bedroom. 

He set me down on the bed, but Jane made me bounce right back up again and begin undressing him. I kissed him over and over again, every part of him, as he allowed his clothes to be pulled away. I kissed his back after his shirt was off, his arms, his sides. I tugged his belt loose, then worked on his trousers snap and zipper. With his pants around his knees, he was forced to sit heavily on the bed as my hands worked on his shoes and socks, then pulled the pants and underwear free. 

I pushed him onto his back. In an instant, my mouth engulfed his cock. Two years ago my drug-dealing asshole of a boyfriend had made me do this, but I'd obviously been so bad (or stoned) that he hadn't asked for a repeat performance. I hadn't remembered this taste. It wasn't too bad, and the obvious pleasure it gave Herman made me wish I'd done it to him before now. Of course, I hadn't really known what to do until now; didn't know exactly what it was I was doing even at this moment. Suddenly, in Herman's eyes, I was an expert. She used my saliva to lubricate the fleshy pole until it was very slippery, and my right hand pumped up and down slowly, then more rapidly, as I sucked and gently squeezed his balls with my left. Soon, he was groaning very loudly. He seemed to swell in my mouth, and I guessed he wouldn't last long. But Jane had other ideas.

"Inside me!" she gasped, letting go and making me spring on top of him. "I have to know what it feels like inside me!" She grasped him and worked the swollen member into my opening. Just as I had done the night before, she pushed down onto him slowly, and the fullness of it felt just as I remembered. It seemed to be something entirely new to her, though. "Oh my God, you're big!" my voice moaned. 'Oh, Hermy, this feels SO good!" He stiffened again for a moment, and then slowly regained the rhythm my body was beginning to demand. She made me lean forward, riding him in long slow strokes, until I felt him rubbing me along his entire length. She kept shifting slightly, until the combination of friction and fullness was sexual perfection. Before, it had never occurred to me to experiment to achieve the maximum enjoyment for MYSELF. Then she made me reach back and grasp his balls.

Soon, all three of us were lost in passion. She was making my body pound itself down onto him; he was getting close and swelling inside me, ready to spill his body's pleasure into mine; and I (the real me, I mean) was just along for the ride (if you'll pardon the pun), having no control whatsoever over my movements, or the orgasm that suddenly wrapped itself around me. I felt him pulse. For a few minutes, at least, the impossible situation I was experiencing ceased to matter at all.

After she'd moved my body off of his and snuggled into his shoulder, she sighed in contentment. My mind was spinning. That had been the best yet. She was MUCH better than I was. He had obviously enjoyed a more intense orgasm than the one this morning, and quite frankly, so had I. She not only could please his body more, she could please mine more, as well.

"Molly," Herman said hesitantly, "that was tremendous." He DID like sex with her better! "I'm sorry if I seemed a little distracted there once or twice, it's just that ...." He paused, looking for the right words. "Well, what you called me ... and the way you ... it was .... That is, you see, my wife ... she ...."

Jane made my body sit up, and rolling over, she propped herself against his massive chest, gazing into his eyes. "Herman, I need to tell you something," she said in my voice.

"Yes?"

"It's going to be a real shock. I want you to be calm, now. Don't freak out on me."

"You're really a man!" he guessed, laughing up at me. She made my face look at him soberly, letting him know she was serious, until the smile left his lips. "Hey, what is it, Molly?"

She let another half minute go by. "Hermy, it's me! It's Jane, Herman! I came back!"

Slowly, he sat up, then very purposefully took me by the shoulders and pushed me away. "This isn't funny." He looked hurt; truly hurt.

"I'm serious, Herman. You know you always accused me and my sisters of 'witchy' stuff ... remember? That's what you called it! Well, you were right, Herman. I never really talked about it, but we really ARE witches. We've always been witches. Mama's a witch! I'm sure you could believe THAT if you tried; and so was HER mother. Today was the equinox, and my sisters brought me back in this body because it looks so much like mine did before ... before ... you know."




A Story of Jane Ch. 05



Herman was looking at me with a little of the wild look he'd had the night before. Was he buying any of this?

"You DO know it's me!" she accused. "I gave you a blowjob just like this one on our first date! Only, of course, I didn't stop that time. And on our honeymoon, remember doing it in that little lake by the cabin in Wisconsin? Remember how the water was glowing while we were getting close to coming? How you said later that it must have been some sort of algae or something? It was me! I did that using a spell to make us cum harder. And we did, didn't we? You'll never forget how intense that was, will you?"

Slowly, the wild look was replaced by one of hope, then sadness, then curiosity, then hope again. "Jane?" he asked in a little-boy voice. "It's really you?"

"Yes!" She made my arms move a little toward him, as if she wanted to hold him, but drew them back again, wanting him to make the first move. And, of course, he did. He smothered me in a hug. And I could feel his tears on my neck, and my heart sank. He loved her. He really loved her. 

We held each other for a very long time, and when he finally held me at arms length by the shoulders again, looking at me, his first question threw me right back into a quandary.

"Molly. What happened to Molly?"

It obviously wasn't the first thing Jane had expected, either. "Uh ... she ... she just sort of vanished."

Say what?

"Vanished?" his eyes took on a sort of quizzical, panicked look. "Jane, what happened to her? She can't be ... dead, can she? I mean, your sisters didn't ... didn't kill her!" He made it sound like a demand.

"No, no, of course not." Was she making this up as she went along? "Jo and Jan and Jean and Jill, they sat down with her after you left this morning, and explained it to her. She must really like you a lot, because she volunteered to let me return in her body, and now her soul is sort of in limbo, like mine was. We're going to try to find something ... er ... somebody for her to transfer to, you know?"

The bitch!

He looked at me suspiciously. "Jane," he said levelly, "I know that sometimes you haven't been entirely truthful in our relationship ...."

"What do you mean?" she interrupted.

He shook his head, refusing to be swayed. "Nothing else matters to me right now," he said sternly. "I love you. I've always loved you; more than anything; more than life itself. No one means more to me than you." My heart was in the dumps again. I wanted to tell him not to believe the lying bitch. 

"But this girl, Molly," he continued. "Jane, she's a good person. I was in pain, and she helped me. You have to find her. You have to help her the way she helped me. I've never really asked you for anything in my whole life, Jane, but I'm begging you for this. Promise me you won't leave her in some kind of limbo."

"Of course, I won't," Jane said through my smiling lips. "I'll find her, I promise. In fact, I think I know where she is right now. Please trust me." She was coaxing him in a sexy voice I didn't know I was capable of producing. "For now, please just hold me. Please?"

She lay my body back on the bed and held out my arms to him. He seemed to hesitate, then lay down beside me and let her arms draw his head onto my soft breast. I had never been able to act this sure and self-confident in my life. Now I realized that it was simply a matter of who was in charge.

As soon as his cheek was against my chest, she began humming a little melody I had never heard before. He started to say something, but she pressed a fingertip to his lips to stop him, never pausing the haunting tune. After a little while, words were being sung from my lips; strange, foreign words, to accompany the melody. And in less than two minutes, he was asleep.

She continued to sing as she gently pushed him over onto his back and studied him carefully to make sure he was really out, then she kissed him tenderly on the lips and got out of bed. In the bathroom, she used a washcloth to clean my body, and then spent several long moments studying my reflection in the mirror above the sink. My hair, having just been washed before Herman arrived, was still a little wet, and a mass of tangled curls. But she seemed to like the wild look, and spent less than a minute with a brush, leaving it in a state I would have never settled for.

In the closet, she found a wrap-around skirt, which she put on without underwear, then scowled at my choice of shoes, finally settling for the highest heels I own (which obviously were too short for her liking). She picked a very thin silk white blouse, one that is definitely meant to be worn with a bra underneath and with a jacket or sweater over it. She tucked it into the skirt, then walked to the full-length mirror.

Now, I really should say a few words about life as a "well endowed" woman. It's really a pain. I've often considered breast reduction surgery, but always dismissed it because it's not covered by my medical insurance. You've probably read stories that refer to breasts that "defy gravity." Well, let me tell you, NOTHING defies gravity, and my boobs are no exception. I work hard in the gym, and I keep them as firm as I can, but a little bit of sag is inevitable. I've mentioned previously that they tend to bounce when I walk, and no large-breasted girl with even a modicum of modesty would ever consider wearing a thin silk blouse out in public without a bra or jacket. Jane obviously fell into the no-modesty category.

She'd left the top two buttons of the blouse unbuttoned, showing the tops and inner sides of my breasts. I tried with all my might to will her to button one of them, only to find her reaching for the third button and uncovering me even more. Then she jerked the bottom of the blouse out of the skirt, unbuttoned the bottom two, and tied the two ends together just above my navel. I looked like a tramp. Worse, I looked like a prostitute out to make a sale. She bent over and looked up at her reflection, smiling at the idea of others being able to see all the way between my boobs. 

She turned and spent another long minute studying Herman's sleeping form. "Take a good look," she said softly. "This is probably the last time you'll ever see him." And it took a moment before I realized she was talking to ME. Then she was walking down the hall and into the kitchen.

She found my purse and rifled through it until she located my keys. Inexplicably, she opened the pantry door, then slammed it and looked around. It took me awhile to realize that she had absolutely no knowledge of this house, and she muttered a satisfied exclamation as she finally found the door leading out to the garage. Taking only my purse and the old leather book, she went through several little trial-and-error attempts, but finally got the garage door up, the car started, and soon she was driving away toward the edge of town. She pulled over at the first gas station she saw, and flounced inside.

I couldn't believe she was going to show me to people while I was dressed like this! My nipples are very sensitive, and the cool March air made them stand out almost painfully. Even worse, as my breasts bounced and slid against the inside of the smooth silk, my engorged nipples sent little shivers of excitement down my spine. Had it been just me inside my body, I would have been blushing crimson to even THINK about someone seeing me in this state. But I could tell that there was no blush on my cheeks at all. She was really enjoying this!

"Hi, Molly!" shouted Gil Smith, a regular at the library. But as soon as he got a really good look at me, his jaw fell and he openly leered me.

Jane never missed a beat. "Hi!" she cooed sexily. "Say listen, you know how ditzy I can be sometimes! I've forgotten ... What's the best way to get to Chicago?" She waited, smiling for a few seconds as he ogled my ample cleavage, then waved my hand in front of his face. "Yoo-hoo. Chicago?"

He blinked. "Chicago?" His eyes never left my breasts. He pointed. "The interstate. Two hours, tops."

"Thanks!" and she spun on my heel and walked back to the car. In ten minutes, she was on the freeway.

She poked a couple buttons on the car radio, frowning at my choice of classical music, and finally changed the station manually to ... oh my God! Country western! To my utter horror, she began singing along with some guy who had hung his heart on a clothesline to dry the tears. Then, just as she started listening to a song called "Laundromat Love," and I began thinking that perhaps having my soul cast into limbo might be preferable to listening to any more of this, she turned into the shopping mall that's just east of town. I had been here the week before, picking up a book I'd ordered from the bookstore. She parked, grabbed my purse, and headed inside.

In the candle shop, she picked out the inevitable black candle and iron holder and took it up to the counter. Then, thinking twice, she went back and got two more of each, and paid for it all with my credit card, scribbling my signature on the receipt. The clerk never even checked the signature against the one on the card. He was too busy drinking in my cleavage with his pig eyes. 

In the mall's most expensive department store, she went first to the Boy Scout section and bought a compass, then found the home decorating section and purchased a mirror, which was 18 inches square in a thin frame. She flirted with the male sales clerk until he agreed to tie the mirror in heavy cord, so she could carry it like a narrow suitcase.

The last stop was a pet store, and she walked around, seemingly muttering to herself, but she was really whispering to me. "What do you fancy being for the rest of your life?" she said softly, smiling at several snakes in a large glass enclosure. She took a long look at a white parrot on a perch in one corner. "Molly want a cracker?" she asked gaily. And finally, she stopped her aimless stroll in front a large enclosed cage of kittens, which was the center of attraction for almost every customer in the shop. They were about five weeks old, incredibly cute, and I knew which one she would choose before she finally spoke in my voice.

"The black one," she told the sales clerk (another man!). He almost tripped and wiped out the entire feline population trying to please her, and Jane waited patiently while he filled out the "adoption" papers, stole a peek at my cleavage, filled out the $100 credit card charge for the kitten (another peek), plus the $50 pet carrier (peek),the $20 litter box (peek), food (peek), litter (etc.), bowls (etc.). Then, he enthusiastically agreed to escort her out to the car, carrying the whole lot in one of those wheeled dolly gizmos. With the kitten sitting in the passenger seat in its carrier, and to the strains of "Cowboy Kisses in Kansas City," she again headed east along the freeway.

Twenty minutes later, she had to use the credit card again for gas, and not long after that, she pulled off the interstate once again into the parking lot of a motel. She consulted the Boy Scout compass, and drove all around the building before shaking her head and driving to another motel across the street. Again she drove around the entire building before dismissing this place as well, and she drove further east along the highway before pulling off once more at the next exit that indicated lodging available. 

This time, at the rear of the motel, she seemed to see something that pleased her. She got out of the car and consulted the compass, then looked up at the second story of the building. It was one of those cheap motels that have walkways on the outside of the structure, and rooms that have large picture windows looking out over the parking lot. I imagine this is so people can keep an eye on their cars, but it also means that anyone walking along the exterior "hallway" to their room can look into yours, unless you keep your curtains pulled shut.

She drove around to the office and let the male clerk drool at my tits for awhile, then said she wanted room 261, or one very near it. The guy tore his eyes away from me long enough to consult a chart, and informed her that room 263 was open. Good enough, she said, and my credit card (which I had worked really hard to finally pay off) had yet another charge rung up against it.

It took her four trips, lugging stuff up the outside stairway to the room, before she finally had everything inside. She set the kitten free, filled the litter box (which it immediately used), and the food and water bowls, and left the little fur-ball to its own devices. Then she pulled the cheap, round wooden table in front of the picture window beside the door, positioned her chair so she could look out the window, and sat down with the leather book open in front of her. The square, framed mirror, she propped in another chair, so she could see her reflection whenever she wanted. And then slowly, silently, carefully, painstakingly, she began to read.

For five hours she read.

I was quickly very bored. I tried desperately to make sense of the Latin handwritten script, but there were no "Tempest Fugit's" or "Carpe Diem's" or any of the other scant Latin words I'd heard before. The kitten tried several times to get her attention, but she ignored it totally, and it found a corner and went to sleep. I tried desperately to think of some way out of the predicament, but though I tried and tried, I couldn't make a sound or even make my eyes move in the direction I wanted to look. There was nothing for me to see except the script she was seeing.

Finally, after more than an hour, I slowly came to realize that the she was moving my lips as she read, and that the words she was forming were in English. She was translating as she went, and silently forming the English words. Reading lips is harder to do than I had ever imagined, and trying to read my own lips when I was not controlling them myself, was exceedingly difficult. Slowly, however, I put together enough phrases to realize that the spell she had to cast had a lot to do with love; love between a man and a woman. But before I could really get the gist of it, she flipped back a dozen pages and started re-reading an earlier part, then flipped forward again to compare various things she had previously translated. She took no notes.

I came to realize two things about her. First, she was much more intelligent than I had previously thought. The bouncy bimbo routine was all an act. This broad had brains. And secondly, she was obviously worried about something. I could tell this by the way she wrinkled my brow, pulled my mouth into a frown, shook my head. From time to time, my eyes lost their focus on the page in front of me, and I could only imagine that she had stopped her reading and was lost in thoughts of her own.

From time to time, people would walk past the window in front of me, but she paid them no heed. One guy in a blue checked shirt, walked back and forth several times and looked in at me (I could see him in my peripheral vision), but she obviously didn't care. The kitten again tried to get her attention, but she kept pushing it away with her foot, and it eventually gave up and started playing with the fringes of the bed spread.

I got hungry. I hadn't eaten anything since my breakfast with Herman, and I knew she must feel the hunger as well, since we seemed to share all physical feelings. She ignored it for almost another hour, but finally she got up, stretched, and walked next door to a deli, where she got a salad and roll to go. Back in the room, she ate about half of it, very carefully, so as not to spill anything on the book.

The sun was going down, and she kept consulting the digital alarm clock on the bedside table. She seemed to rush her reading now, and her flipping backwards and forwards became more frantic. And then suddenly, she closed the book and stretched again. And finally, she turned and faced the mirror.

"Okay, Molly," she said, staring into the eyes in the mirror. "No more act. No more games. Something's going to happen in ..." (She checked the clock again. It indicated twenty minutes after eight.) "thirty two minutes. What Jo said was correct. Two separate souls cannot occupy the same body after the full moon of the equinox. One of us has got to go, and as you may have guessed, I have no intention of leaving. I could cast you into oblivion, or transfer your essence into the cat. If I did that, I'd give you to Jean - she'd love you, of course. She loves you now, I could tell from the way she talked about you. But then, Jean loves everybody."

She continued staring into the mirror, but stopped talking. After a full two minutes, I suddenly realized that the girl in the mirror was blinking at MY command; blinking when I felt like blinking. Experimentally, I reached up and felt my cheek. She'd given me my body back! But then, suddenly, my ability to move was gone again. Was she playing with me?

"I can give you control if I want to," she said to the girl in the mirror. "I find myself in the position of asking for your help. To transfer to the body of the cat, you have to go willingly. I really don't want to kill you or condemn you to the unknown. I sort of promised Herman I'd help you. But that's as far as I'm willing to go."

And then, after another moment, I somehow knew she had given me control again. I just sat there for a long minute, thinking. "Go to hell," I said quietly. I'd started to cry. "The truth of the matter is that I love your husband. The fact that somebody cast some sort of weird spell to MAKE me love him doesn't matter at all to me. Life without him doesn't hold much appeal, especially as a cat."

My control left me again. I could tell because the tears stopped as she took charge. She thought for a moment, then changed tactics. "Listen, Molly. I know you think I'm a terrible person. But please listen to reason. He loves me more than you. You know that from the way we acted together. What's more, I can love him better. Maybe not more than you feel you love him, but better. Physically, I mean. You know that's true, don't you?" Well, she had me there. "And I DO love him, Molly. I really do. I can't let you just ... vanish, and then tell him a lie. Please help me!"

The bitch was smooth, I had to give her that. Do it for Herman. She didn't even know me, but somehow she knew THAT would convince me. As I struggled with what she had told me, I realized the tears were back, indicating that she had given me control again. I couldn't believe I was falling for her arguments. I just KNEW she was going to double-cross me somehow. Oh, what the heck! Maybe oblivion was dark, and I HATED the dark! Being a cat would be better than being in the dark.

"What do you want me to do?" I whispered through the tears.

Quickly, she took control of me again and opened the book to a certain page. She pointed. "Here," she said. "These four words. You'll have to read them. Just sound them out. They're written in English script, so you shouldn't have any trouble."

She gave me control again, and I whispered the words between little sobs.

"Great!" she said, seizing my body's will again and leaping to her feet. "Just say it again, just like that, when I tell you. Then I'll read the completion to the spell, and it will be done!" 

Quickly, she corralled the kitten and put it back in its carrier. Next, she place the three candles in their holders and arranged them above and on either side of the leather volume. And finally (Oh, WHY did I know this was going to happen?), she started removing my clothes. Naked, she sat back down in the chair and looked out the picture window. Ah, the moon was rising in the east - that's why she bought the compass and chose this room! She had a perfect view of the full moon! She checked the digital alarm clock again. The glowing red numbers proclaimed eight-fifty. Two minutes to go.




A Story of Jane Ch. 05



She lighted the candles using a motel matchbook. Then, in a rather loud voice, she started reading. The Latin words, as usual, meant nothing to me, but I knew that they spelled my doom. I vowed that the first thing I would do once I occupied the body of the kitten was bite her!

In the window, the huge moon was fully above the horizon now; I could see it plainly in my peripheral vision. As she continued to read, amazingly, inexplicably, Herman and Jean appeared and looked in at me. They stared, open-mouthed, at my naked form, sitting in full view of the outside world, bathed in candlelight. 

Dumbfounded, I raised my hand and waved at them. Then, I suddenly became aware that it was ME doing the waving. Jane had given me control again for some reason. Immediately, the control left me, my head snapped back to the book, my finger was pointed at the now-familiar four words, and Jane said "Now, Molly! Read it now! It has to be NOW!"

As she gave me my control back, I looked up automatically. Herman had started banging on the door. Jean was looking in at me, then she turned to stare at the moon, then back at me again. She understood. 

I don't think I'll ever really know why I did what I did then. I muttered "I love you, Herman," and looked back down at the page and read the words.

There was more to the spell, I knew. At least, that's what she had told me. I waited for her to complete it, but I still seemed to be in control of my body. I looked back up at the window again. Jean was saying something to Herman, pointing toward the moon, arguing. He shook off her hand and pounded on the door again. The most incredible feeling I have ever experienced washed through my body and my mind and my entire being. And suddenly the door exploded off its hinges.

Herman stood in the doorway, breathing hard, staring at me wild-eyed. Jean was just behind him, holding his left arm in both her hands, staring as well, a look of dread and immense curiosity on her face.

"Who ARE you?" she said at last.

I laughed at that. For some reason, I thought it the funniest question I had ever heard.

"Who am I?" I repeated. "Why, I'm ME!"



A Story of Jane Ch. 06



Chapter Six

MONDAY, the 21st of SEPTEMBER - THE AUTMNAL EQUINOX

As I write this final chapter, I am sitting in one of my favorite places in the whole world: Mama's library, at the big table in front of the window overlooking Lake Michigan. As little girls, Jean and I would come in here and try to imagine what marvelous spells were contained in the old volumes that line these walls. Women in centuries past have been burned for possessing such books. Today, with freedom from persecution and the freedom of curiosity born in my generation, Wicca is one of the fastest growing religions in the country, though I guess most people consider it more of a curiosity than a religion.

It's time, I guess, to tell you what really happened that night, exactly six months ago, and the incredible events that have taken place in my life since. It's best, they say, to start at the beginning. I, of course, do things the hard way; so I'll start at the end (though I consider it a beginning, of sorts).

I told Molly as I sat in that motel room that two separate souls could not occupy a single body after the moon was full. That was true. I also told her that, with her help, I would transfer her consciousness into the body of the kitten. That was also true. My lie was actually one of omission. 

As I read and reread each of the spells (actually a continuation of the spell my sisters had used to bring me back), my mind kept going back to something that Jo had told me when she gave me the book. She said that Mama "knew I would do the right thing." That struck an unsettling cord in my mind. Mama had never approved of ANYTHING I did. She saw me as wild, impetuous, rebellious, untrustworthy, selfish, and a whore. And she was right, of course. I was all those and more. Did she really think I was going to change now, even having just returned from the dead?

As Molly read her little Latin phrase, all that remained for me to do was to utter a single, closing word, and she would be transferred into the body of the cat for the rest of her days. I had KNOWN she would say those words! I knew her type. She was Jean's type! Hopelessly romantic, unbelievably innocent, unselfish to the very end. Just one word, and I would have been rid of her forever. What I had omitted to explain, of course, was that, in the event no spell was cast at all, our souls wouldn't occupy the same body separately; they would merge and occupy it TOGETHER! With Mama's words echoing in my mind, for the first time in my life, I did not act at all. Call it a moment of faith, I guess.

And now, at last, it's time to remind you of the strange little statement I made at the beginning of this rambling missive. I said that the most difficult aspect of writing this was its tense. I've done it (up until now) in the first-person singular. But to do so, I have had to completely disregard half of the sum total of my knowledge, my experiences, and my beliefs. It has been, quite frankly, the hardest thing I think I've ever written, in either of my lifetimes.

Oh yes. One final point before I tell you the rest of the story of that night. It is, by far, the most amazing aspect in the merging of myselves. I find that I marvel at the concept even months later, but I swear it's true. Submissiveness is a dominant trait! Perhaps the truth is that "submissiveness" is not the trait at all, but only an aspect of many traits, that include an overwhelming discomfort for all those things I told you Mama didn't like in me. At the moment of my merging, they simply lost their importance to me, and all those things that make me Molly became the most important.

All I know is that the first thing I did that night (after I stopped laughing at Jean's question) was to throw myself into my husband's arms and kiss him. The second thing (after becoming cognizant of the growing number of people flocking to our room to see what the commotion was about) was to ask him for his jacket so I could cover my nakedness. 

The hotel security guards arrived in less than a minute, and Herman (always a sharp guy, my Hermy), concocted a spur-of-the-moment story about seeing me choking on a piece of my salad and he broke down the door to administer the Heimlich maneuver. This, plus his credit card to charge the damages, seemed to be sufficient to placate the motel administration, and we were soon established in another room, complete with carefully drawn window curtains and a working door.

After assuring them that both of me were inside me, I refused to answer any more questions until learning how they had found me. As it turned out, it wasn't so hard after all. Jean had given the other sisters the slip at a gas station outside of town and had gotten a lift from a trucker back the other way. (That was amazing! To my knowledge, Jean had never done anything so bold in her life!) She had entered the house through the garage door, which I had left open, and finally roused Herman from his little "nap" and told him everything about the spell, and what she suspected that I (Jane) was about to do to me (Molly). 

Jean was a computer major in college, and she spent some time with my PC and finally located my credit card number through something called a "cookie." (I had used the credit card to buy the silk robe from an on-line lingerie store.) Then Herman called a private investigator in Chicago that he had used once, and gave him the card number. Within an hour, they knew about the purchases I'd made at the mall. In Herman's pickup truck, they used his cell phone to stay in touch with the PI, and tracked the me first to the gas station where I'd filled my car's tank, and finally to the motel.

Jean had fallen instantly in love with the kitten (she's named it Equinox; "Nox," for short), and after chatting with me for a few more minutes, just to make sure in her own mind that both the women she loved were still around, she took it in its carrier, along with my car keys, and headed home to Chicago. I told her we'd meet her there in a few days, after my husband and I had gotten "better acquainted."

This, as it turned out, was quite literal. I couldn't stand being with Herman again unless I came clean about a few things. Before, in our married life, I had never really been bothered by little things like a conscience. But I was now; and even though this first night should have been one of pure romance, the "Molly" side of me demanded that it first be one of confession. 

I had cheated on him - twice (well, twice with other men, anyway): once before we were married, with the bartender at my "bachelorette" party (I'd been flirting with him mercilessly all evening, and after everybody else had gone home, things just got out of hand), and once with a piano tuner a couple months after the wedding while Herman was out of town on business for a week (I'd met that guy for a "re-tuning" session the following two days at his single-wide home in a trailer park in North Chicago). Neither of these little flings was serious, and both had been brought to a quick end before Herman could find out. I may have been a wild, cheating whore, but I always knew that nothing must ever come between my husband and me.

And then, of course, there was Jean. Not only had I made love to Jean as Molly, but Jean and I had been having an incestuous relationship since we were teenagers. In fact, it was Jean I had been going to see when I had been killed by the truck. 

As I explained all this to him, I had been sitting next to him on the edge of the bed in the cheap motel, but I had been looking down at my bare feet, afraid of what I might see in his eyes if I looked up at him. After confessing this about Jean, however, he made a strange sound, and glancing up at him, I saw an intense mixture of emotions in him. I had been wondering if I should really tell him just yet the whole story about Jean, but now he was clearly excited. There was a sparkle of curiosity in his eye, and glancing lower, I couldn't help but notice that he was hard. I had often caught Herman giving Jean a sidelong glance, but I certainly hadn't faulted him for that; Jean is an exceptionally pretty girl. But more than just beauty, Jean had an aura of innocence that attracted men like flies. I had never been worried about him and Jean, of course. Jean was a lesbian, she was my lover, and she told me everything; literally everything. You see, it wasn't just an aura ... Jean really WAS innocent. But now, seeing this reaction in him, I decided to press on with my night of confession. I took a deep breath and continued.

Jean and I had always been more than just sisters. We were best friends. We played together when we were kids, and when we moved into the big house by the lake, we insisted on sharing a room. Papa had died when I was eight and Jean nine, and from that time on, the house was always in flux. But while we changed bedrooms twice as Jo, and then Jill and Jan left for college, we always share the same bedroom. I think the thing that kept us so close was the fact that we were such opposites. Yin versus yang. Bad versus good. Wild versus subdued. And finally dominant versus submissive.

Sometimes, we would argue, just as all sisters do, but she would always give in. What really ticked me off was that in the long run, she would usually be proven right after all! But she never said "I told you so," never acted smug or condescending, as I always did. At the time, I didn't even know the meaning of the word "submissive," but eventually, I got the gist of the concept, and I always capitalized on every advantage.

She was always very shy; painfully so. She was forced into the dating scene by just about everybody, including Mama and especially me. As a high school sophomore, I was already dating, and I felt threatened by an 11th grade sister who was not. Mama too often told me: "Why can't you be more like Jean?" and the more promiscuous I could make her appear, the more leeway I could argue for myself.

And then, on the third date she had ever had, she was raped.

She told me about it, of course. She told me everything. But at this particular time in my life, I had fixated on cheerleading. It's all I could think about; all I could talk about. I didn't notice anything was wrong at first (though, looking back on it, the signs were all there), and Jean kept the terrible secret bottled up inside her for almost a week before I realized she was in pain about something. By then, it was too late to talk her into going to the police, or the principle, or even Mama. She wouldn't even consider it. She had ME to talk to, and that's all she seemed to want, so I held her as she cried until there were no more tears left to shed.

She never dated again. (Well, there was that one disastrous evening the following year when I forced her to go on a double date with me, my latest fling and his older cousin. She absolutely refused to go at first, but as usual, I eventually got my way. I've never seen a girl so nervous in my whole life. She got half way through dinner and threw up. "Okay, sis," I said as I drove her home, "you win.")

I wanted to cast some spell on the creep that had raped her, but he was a military brat, and before I could find a way to turn him into a mealworm, he had moved away. I still fantasize about getting even with that asshole.

Midway through the next school year, I began to notice the way she looked at me sometimes. She had become more introverted than ever, and I had long since lost patience with her. We were still best friends, of course, and we still told each other almost everything, but lately, it was me doing most of the telling. And all my adventures seemed to be sexual. I had lost my virginity at fifteen, and by my junior year, I was already getting a reputation. I'd use a guy until I was tired of him, then dump him for someone that was his exact opposite. In this way, I was an equal-opportunity fucker, switching indiscriminately from basketball player to debate team captain to football lineman to nerd. And I'd tell Jean every gory little detail; every feeling and sound and smell. She would listen, enraptured, chiding me, telling me how naughty I was; but mainly she'd just listen. I slowly realized that my tales were sort of a sexual substitute; that I wasn't just a source of fantasy, but a surrogate in a forbidden realm.  

I could tell she was sexually excited; but not by my stories. She was excited by me.

As I said, we had no secrets, so finally I just came out and asked her: "Are you a lesbian?" And once the question was out in the open, she had to think about it. And the more she thought about it, the more she had to admit that she really didn't know. It didn't matter anyway, she said, since she had no intention of going out with ANYONE in the foreseeable future.

Now, if you haven't already figured it out, I like sex. I like it a lot. But looking back, I have to admit that it wasn't really the sex; it was the amazing amount of power I had over others when sex was involved. I could manipulate, cajole, coax, and demand things I had never before thought possible. Every experience was still new; and, good or bad, it was the number of new experiences I was after. As long as I relied on my sexuality, I felt I could do almost anything by controlling almost anyone. I had never been with another girl, but I was a little curious; and, after all, it was just another experience.

But now I realized I was about to take an extraordinary step in my life by controlling my best friend: my sister. I looked at her in a whole new light, and in it, I could, for the first time, see the way she was looking at ME. She didn't even realize it herself. If I did this, nothing would ever be the same. That made it all the more exciting. I decided to make it a very long, deliberate process, and I decided that I would have a lot of fun as the task progressed.

I began by "dressing down" a little. I had never been a shy one, and being in the bedroom with Jean while wearing only my panties and bra was no big deal. Jean almost always wore a robe when she wasn't fully clothed, but now I stripped to my underwear whenever we were in the room together. If she questioned it, I told her I was more comfortable like that, and I began berating her for being prudish by covering up all the time. And then, more and more often, I'd go topless, wearing only my panties. I started noticing her staring at me then, and that sort of confirmed my hypothesis. Now, I really started getting on her case, telling her that best-friend-sisters shouldn't be afraid to show a little skin while relaxing in their own bedroom. We fought. She avoided the room for awhile when I was home. We fought again. And finally, as always, she gave in and started lounging around the bedroom in her underwear. She was nervous and dreadfully shy. Fortunately, she didn't get so nervous that she threw up, but she never did feel comfortable like that in front of anyone; even me.

I started complimenting her on her figure. She shyly reciprocated, telling me she envied MY body. This, of course, made it easy to demand she remove her bra, as well, for a little comparison. The argument didn't last as long this time, and ended in us sitting side by side in her bed, arms touching provocatively, talking about breasts in general, and hers and mine in particular. She blushed beautifully for the hour or so before bedtime, and I realized that we had reached some pinnacle in this little exercise. I could either retreat or push her over to the other side. Full speed ahead!

Over the next week or so, I demanded often that she remove her bra when we were alone in our room. I had started removing my panties, as well, and while I was always nonchalant and matter-of-fact about the whole thing, I saw her staring at me more and more often. I began touching her a lot more, as well, both in and out of the bedroom. I'd hold her arm while we were walking around the neighborhood and at school, and sometimes I'd even hold her hand. She never pulled away, but I could tell that the public show of intimacy was embarrassing to her. In our room, I'd often sit very close to her, sometimes perched on the arm of her chair, butt-naked, my arm around her bare shoulder, reading an e-mail on her computer screen along with her. Sometimes, when I caught her staring at me instead of her textbook, I'd smile knowingly, and she'd blush crimson and quickly look away.

It was early spring, and the first thunderstorm of the year was the excuse I was looking for. The week before, I had demanded that she start sleeping naked, just as I had. By this time, she had almost stopped arguing with me about everything. She still saw my demands as outrageous, but she simply began relenting to everything I suggested. When the thunder was near that night, I feigned fright and got into bed with her. She didn't try to stop me, but rolled away from me, facing the wall next to her bed. I snuggled up to her, holding her closely, even though her skin was uncomfortably hot from embarrassment. After a long ten minutes or so, I could tell she was crying, probably from nervousness and confusion about her feelings, but I pretended to think she was scared of the storm, too, and made her roll over and put her head on my chest while I held her and told her that everything was going to be alright. After the storm ended, she asked if I was going to get up and go back to my own bed. I asked if that's what she wanted me to do, but she couldn't make herself answer; so I stayed, and eventually we went to sleep like that.

The next night, I got into bed with her again. She never questioned me. For the next month, we slept together, naked in her bed. 

Now, this didn't stop me from dating (and screwing) one or two links in my long chain of high school sexual suitors. When I came back from an especially hot date, often reeking and dripping from the encounters, I'd crawl right into bed with her and make her listen to all the little details. She was obviously repulsed, but aside from our constant closeness, it was still the only thing sexual in her life. 

She was uncomfortable and nervous, but she had by now begun submitting to my every demand and suggestion. At my insistence, she was always naked in our bedroom. I'd make her go into the kitchen to get us milk and snacks wearing only the minimal dress ... a thin robe or a long-sleeved shirt. When I knew Mama was already in her room for the night, I'd have Jean go to the kitchen wearing nothing at all. She'd beg me not to make her, but she'd stopped arguing completely, and she'd always wind up doing as I commanded, no matter how uncomfortable it made her.

The next logical step in the process was to start stroking her with my fingertips when we were in bed at night. For about a week, I just stroked her hair, idly, as if I were doing it absentmindedly. The next week, it was her back. The next, her stomach and breasts. 

All this time, I became more and more demanding of her. I had her doing my home work, as well as her own. She had been accepted, with a scholarship, to Princeton. But I made her apply to U of I, and tell Mama that she intended going there. Mama threw a fit and Jean cried. In private, I commanded and Jean obeyed. I hadn't even had sex with her, and already she was my greatest personal conquest to date.

By the end of the school year, I'd worked the situation up to the point that I was almost making her cum with my gentle touches, but I'd never quite go all the way, and she'd never be so bold as to ask me to take her to the peak. By now, I was as frustrated as she was. I made some pretty strenuous demands on my boyfriends, but even after making them bring me to some heart-stopping orgasms, I would still find myself wanting her. At times, I wondered if I could keep things at this level forever. But, of course, neither of us could stop the inevitable now.




A Story of Jane Ch. 06



I decided to tell her that I would make her my lover on her 18th birthday, two weeks away. Each night, as I touched and petted her, I'd tell her that in the morning, there would be one less day until she became mine, body and soul. She'd never have a reply to that, but in the middle of the night, I'd wake up and find her hugging me like she was sleeping with a teddy bear. 

When the big day arrived, Jo and Jan and Jill surprised us by all arriving to have a real birthday party. It was nice to see the whole family together again, but it seemed to go on forever. It was 10:00 at night before we could get away, but as soon as the bedroom door was closed and locked against sibling intruders, Jean stripped off her clothes and surprised me by falling on her knees at my feet and hugging me around the waist.

She was crying, saying "Please, Jane, please make me yours!" and professing her undying love for me. I made her get to her feet and take my clothes off, piece by piece, each at my command, and folding things neatly before stacking them for the hamper in the morning. At long last, I had her put her arms around my neck, and for the first time, we kissed. It was the softest kiss I'd ever had, even though it was also, without a doubt, the most passionate. When it was finally over, I made her stretch out on the bed on her back, and then I lay beside her and kissed her again. Often, in fact. I finally bent down and sucked a nipple into my mouth (another first experience!), and stroked her gently between her legs. She came hard as soon as I touched her. I'd met several guys with an extremely short fuse, but I never imagined a girl could have the same problem. No, I mused, not a problem. Not a problem at all. She came twice more before I finally relented to her pleas and let her touch me. I had to instruct her where to touch, how hard and how fast. She'd never even done this to herself before, and the orgasms I had given her were her first, other than a confusing wet dream or two. As we held each other and waited for sleep, she cooed over and over again, "I'm yours now! I'm really yours!"

My problem, of course, was that I had become just as hooked on her as she was on me. I knew I could never give her up; never give up the sheer thrill of uncompromising power I felt whenever I was with her. She would do ANYTHING for me. What a rush! I not only loved her, I loved what I could do with her.

The next year, she returned home every weekend from college. We would stay in our room almost constantly, laughing and talking and loving. The year after that, she had already found an off-campus apartment for us, and we were "roomies" for the next four years. When she graduated a semester early, I insisted she stay and earn her Masters, which she did, of course. I only let her leave school when I graduated, and then we moved in together in a Chicago apartment. I dated around, just as I had in high school and college, had sex with guys once or twice a week, and my submissive lover would still be there, waiting patiently, when I got home. She still thrilled to hear of my escapades with my men, but I always figured that was just another aspect of her subservient personality.

We would have lived like that forever if it hadn't been for Herman. I knew just as soon as I saw him, working with a spade in a huge hole in the ground, that I had to have him; had to make him mine. The idea of taking a common laborer home to meet Mama was especially intoxicating (I hadn't realized at the time that he actually owned the business and was just getting a little exercise). I went after him as if I was one of Arthur's knights and he was the holy grail. He was my mission. My goal. And finally, my one true love. My one true male love, that is. 

In Mama's library there have to be literally thousands of spells covering just about every emotion, situation, and natural occurrence you can think of. But more than half of those are love spells. Definitely the most popular recipes in the old cookbook. I've studied an awful lot of them, and I've come to the conclusion that the most powerful of these were the joint spells that my sisters used on Herman and me (as Molly). This was the one that I chose last year after I knew, in my heart, that he was the man for me. The problem, of course, was that I had to get someone else to cast half of the spell on me. Jean was my obvious choice, and you can imagine how she must have felt when I commanded her to do it; but do it she did. I promised her, on my honor, that I wouldn't forsake her after Herman and I were married. But she'd have done it anyway. Her love for me was that strong. The spell was consummated the next time Herman and I had sex, and my love for him soared. We were married the following month.

True to my word, I returned to Jean's apartment once every week or so. Just like old times, I'd make her listen to a recap of all the sexual encounters Herman and I had had most recently. I delighted in making her uncomfortable, and these little orations of mine were extremely graphic. Of course, we'd both be naked and holding each other while I subjected her these talks, so I could keenly observe how she reacted. It surprised me. Before, in high school and college, she would squirm and blush as I told her of my escapades. But when I was talking about Herman, she listened raptly. It also turned her on more than my earlier "talks" with her, though at first I chalked it up to the fact that absence had increased her need for me. But finally I began to wonder if she might be jealous. Was she interested in Herman sexually? Romantically? Of course, we had no secrets, so I just asked her. Her reaction was exactly the same as when I'd asked her seven years before if she was a lesbian. She had to stop and think about it. And finally, she admitted that she didn't really know. She confessed she wondered about heterosexual encounters from time to time. She did really like Herman. He had always treated her like a lady. And while he couldn't help but be attracted to her (as I've said, ALL men are attracted to Jean), he never came on to her, never used innuendo, and always treated her with utmost respect. The idea of my lover being attracted to my husband was a real turn-on. 

But before I could give it much more thought, I was killed.

That was what I told my husband, sitting on that bed in that lousy motel on the most momentous night of my life. I fervently hoped that my confessions wouldn't turn him away from me, but now that both of me were one, I found that I simply couldn't go on in my relationship with him without his knowing the truth. But would it drive him away from me? Would this knowledge that his love for me (for BOTH of me) was the result of a witch's spell turn his heart cold?

I looked up at him. His eyes were burning with pure lust. I had never seen him look at me that way. Before I could utter another word, he reached out with both hands and literally ripped the jacket from my body. With a sort of animal roar, he attacked me; that's really the only word for it. My body was thrown back, naked, onto the bed, and he was on me. He kissed me violently, and I wondered if my lips would be bruised in the morning. He pawed my breasts, my sides, my back, then backed off of me for a moment and struggled upright, frantically trying to get his belt undone and his pants down. I tried to help him, but four frantic hands only got in the way with results that seemed, for the moment, comical. I barked a laugh, but suddenly the offending garment was down around his knees, and my mirth was cut short by another overly-aggressive kiss. 

He fumbled between us for a moment, lining us up, and slammed into me. I'm afraid I screamed as he did that. I didn't want to make too much noise and disturb others in the motel, but he began pounding into me with a regular rhythm, and certain sounds just seemed to come out of my mouth on their own each time he filled me so violently. My breasts, constantly in the way of almost everything I do, ballooned between us, mashing my nipples into the hair of his chest. He was holding me so tightly I thought I was going to explode.

I was finally getting raped, I thought. But this wasn't rape, of course; it was nothing if not completely consensual. But it was very, very HARD sex. Oh God, I loved it! It was everything my fantasy had been and much, much more. His cock began making a sort of slurping sound as it hammered in and out of my drooling cunt. He would pull out relatively slowly, but then ram into me with such force that it was quite impossible for me not to make some sort of sound.

After a minute or so, I sort of lost interest in the sensitivity of others in the establishment, and quite frankly, the fact that I was in a motel at all seemed to slip out of my consciousness. There was only him, and me, and this wonderful feeling that was bubbling up inside of me. He came first, but he didn't beat me by much. I'm afraid I screamed again. Half of me, you see, has always been a screamer.

We lay together then, holding each other, gasping like two fish out of water. When he'd calmed down enough to speak, he apologized for being so rough, but I kept insisting that I thought it had been wonderful. Herman had very rarely done it to me twice in a day, and I felt a little like I'd just won the triple crown today (though he had actually done it with three different women, if you stop and think about it).

Exhausted, we slept.

The next day was Easter Sunday. We called the front desk to tell them we would be staying another night, then we called room service for breakfast (and later lunch and dinner), put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door, and spent the whole day in bed. It was necessary. He had to get to know me. I had to get to know myself, as well, and the picture of me that eventually emerged was, I think, pleasing to us both. When I was only Jane, I was definitely the one in charge of our marriage. I was demanding and adventurous, and Herman had his hands full just trying to keep up with me. But now I wanted HIM to be the one to make the decisions, and instead of seeking new adventures, I wanted him to reign me in and control me. It suddenly seemed incredibly romantic to me. The idea of being a "kept woman" thrilled me. 

I was sore after yesterday's "workouts;" sore between my legs; sore all over. Don't forget, my body hadn't had sex in a couple years, and there were some aspects to romance that I had to get used to again. Even so, I just couldn't tell him no when he began making love to me again after breakfast. He sensed my discomfort and was extremely gentle with me. It made me frustrated. I wanted him to take me like he'd done the night before, and as the coupling progressed and my passion blossomed, I finally wound up thrusting my body up at him frantically. He laughed. I blushed. We both came. 

We talked afterwards; talked a long, long time. He told me that he had suspected me of having an affair at about the time of my death, and had hired the private investigator to try to find out who my lover was; but no one had ever imagined that it was Jean. 

And now, as he grew to understand the nature of our new relationship, he began to take advantage of it in surprising ways. He announced that we would go back to my little town tomorrow (Monday) just long enough for me to quit my job. Then it would be off to Vegas and a quickie wedding. He wanted me to be his wife before we moved back into our Chicago home together. The only problem I foresaw was how to tell my parents. Mom had always hoped to see me in a big church wedding, and I doubted if I'd ever be able to explain to her that I'd already HAD one (but in the body of another woman). Oh well. She'd get over it. She was absolutely going to LOVE Herman!

Jean! What was I going to do about Jean? She was much more to me than a best friend and sister. I told Herman that I would always be faithful to him now, but oh, I was going to miss loving Jean! That's when Herman hit me with the second surprise of the day. He said that he didn't WANT me to give Jean up; that he could live with the idea of sharing me with her, as long as I was honest with him. We could work up a schedule of some sort, and even let me spend the night with her sometimes. I couldn't believe he was so understanding! I cried (another Molly trait that turned out to be dominant). But talking about Jean had made him hard again, and I couldn't help but wonder if his extreme ardor last night had been a direct result of my telling him of Jean's secret desires.

The third shocker came just after dinner, while we were taking a bath together and he was playing idly with my nipples. Are you on the pill? he asked. I told him about the three I had taken the day before, and the reasons why. For some reason, that gave him yet another erection, but he didn't use it; not just then, at any rate. Instead, he told me that I was not to start taking them again. The implications took a little while to sink in. A baby! He'd told me a year ago that he wanted a family, but I wouldn't even consider it. Not for the next few years, at least, I'd said. But now he was making it a demand, and of course, that meant that he really intended to make me pregnant. Soon. My head spun. 

His hard-on didn't seem to be going away by itself, and so he made yet another demand on me.

The next month was a blur. After the wedding, we came back and moved my Molly belongings to Chicago. Herman entered some sort of business deal whereby he sold his business to a corporation that took it public, but somehow he remained as CEO. The result was that he kept the same job, didn't work as hard as before, and we somehow wound up very comfortable financially. I took him to meet my parents in Iowa, and, sure enough, Mom DID just love him! Dad could talk business with him, and he thought that was a great trait for a son. 

The reunion with Mama was different altogether. As soon as we walked in the house I broke down completely, ran to her crying, and threw myself into her arms. She knew all about the merger of souls, of course (Jean had told her the outcome), but this behavior really threw her for a loop. We walked into the library for a little mother-daughter chat that turned out to last two hours. She wanted to know Molly, of course. Everybody wanted to get to know Molly. I had to patiently explain several times that Molly didn't exist anymore, just as Jane did not. She did get to know the real ME better, and she finally, finally seemed to like what she saw.

With Herman's approval, I invited Jean over to our house one night to join us for dinner. She was nervous, overly polite, and horny (I can always tell when Jean is horny - there's just a certain look about her). Over spaghetti and meatballs, I told her that I had confessed to Herman all about the two of us. That REALLY made her nervous, but before she could puke, I went on to explain our little "agreement." She was flabbergasted. It took her a long while (with Herman's help) to really believe it, and then she said that she had to think about it for awhile. But I knew what her answer would be. Like I said, I knew she was really horny. 

By the end of April, we were seeing each other twice a week, on Mondays and Thursdays. By the end of May, I was staying all night every Thursday. 

The "Jane" in me still had a trick or two up her sleeve, though. When I was with Jean, I would still go into every detail about my lovemaking with Herman. She still hung on my every word, and now demanded to be told even more. You see, before in our relationship I was strongly dominant. But we were now equals in our lovemaking. I think she really missed being forced into submission, and now the closest she could come to it was hearing me tell how I was being dominated at home by my husband. Herman had discovered my love for bondage (through my confessions about my asshole drug-pushing former lover), and talk of that drove Jean toward jealous fantasy. By demanding more and more information, SHE was slowly becoming more dominant in our relationship. And when I went home from my rendezvous with Jean, I made sure to tell my Herman about every little thing we did to each other. In no time at all, I had them drooling over the very idea of one another.

In early July, I started inviting Jean to our house for dinner once a week. Knowing that they knew each other's bedroom secrets was a real turn-on for me. Everybody was turned on. When Jean left, Herman would always take me violently, and Jean could hardly wait for our next little session. Her jealousy only heightened in late July when I found out I was pregnant. Lesbian or not, Jean's biological clock was ticking pretty hard, and while she was delighted, she was also terribly envious.

That's when I started hinting at a permanent solution to Herman. He wanted to build us a huge new house on Lake Geneva, and had, in fact, bought the land and started clearing the construction site. What if I were to invite Jean over for a preliminary heterosexual encounter with Herman? There was no doubt that he liked her, and it was obvious that she liked him more than any MAN she had ever met. He could certainly be gentle if he wanted to be. If things really worked out well, perhaps she could move out to the lake with us. Well, it was like trying to talk a kid into buying the candy store. When he had finally stopped screwing me, he readily agreed that he was certainly willing, if I could talk Jean into it.

It was yet another of those little episodes in which she, not having seriously considered such a thing, said she didn't know if she could do it. She'd think about it, she said. But I knew right away what her answer would be.

The night it happened (another dinner at our house), Jean was almost too nervous to eat. She'd had two weeks to work up her courage for this, but she only seemed to get more anxious as the night approached. The thing that made it all bearable for her, I think was seeing how nervous Herman was. It was almost comical, and we all wound up laughing in the middle of eating our lasagna. 

I called a halt to the meal by getting up, making Jean get up, and then kissing her passionately. We'd never actually done that in front of Herman, and suddenly everything seemed to be alright. I motioned to my husband, who walked around to us and sort of took over from me, kissing her gently, then more urgently. He picked her up and carried her into our bedroom, but I only went as far as the doorway, where I stood watching them as she submitted totally to him. 

He was infinitely patient and gentle with her. He never stopped kissing her for more than a second or two, as he slowly, slowly undressed her. This kept her completely off balance, which was just the way she longed to be. All of the weeks of frustration with me, seeking earnestly for the dominant-submissive relationship of old, was being swept away; and now she just seemed to give her soul to him. His kisses finally shifted to her throat, her breasts, her tummy, and finally, finally, to her sex.

He was surprised at how quickly she came, and then by how quickly she built to another orgasm, even though I had told him in great detail about that particular trait of hers. After her third orgasm, I watched, weak-kneed and rapt, as he rose above her, positioned himself, and finally began pushing into her sopping cunt. She gasped loudly, threw her arms around his neck, grasped his body with her legs to draw him more fully inside of her, and began whispering little exclamations into his ear, calling him by name, clutching at him, and then throwing her head back and giving a long shrieking orgasmic moan.

He had won her heart completely. And only now did it dawn on me that "lesbian" was not the sexual proclivity that best described Jean at all. "Submissive" was the one word that said it all. It didn't really matter if it was a man or a woman. She simply needed to be dominated by whoever loved her. 




A Story of Jane Ch. 06



They did it once more before falling asleep, and only then did I tiptoe into the room and join them in the king size bed. 

As I finally bring this volume to a close, I have to admit that I have never been happier, in either of my lifetimes. Without gaining in age, I have gained greatly in experience and knowledge. I am no longer constantly dissatisfied on the one hand, or filled with perverted longings on the other. When Jean joins Herman and me in the big house on the lake next month, I will be with my husband, my friend, my sister, my lover, and our children. Jean found out she was pregnant this week, and our daughters will grow up as close as cousins (and half-sisters) can be. Girls seem to run in our family. 

I know so much now. I know Latin. I know the Dewey Decimal System. I like classical and country (and vintage jazz, though neither of me really did before).

And when we lie down at night, Jean and Herman and I sleep like three spoons stacked in a drawer.