Message-ID: <1465eli$9706152134@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: Path: qz!not-for-mail Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: Krieg Lite Subject: Jenny (Mf+ teen play) Chap 4 - Repost As found in the noodle box... [WARNING: This is a non-erotic interlude. Skip this chapter and wait for chapter 5 if you're looking for the good stuff. Maybe even chapter 6 for the serious good stuff.] [WARNING Two: Might be an appreciable wait before the posting of the next chapter.] ------------------------------------------------------------ Chapter Four The Date Despite a relatively good sleep, all day the next day I was as nervous as some pimply faced adolescent awaiting his first date. I had spent most of my free moments during the day regretting letting Jenny talk me into this thing. I couldn't think of any way it could turn out well for me. I could think of a dozen ways it could turn into a minor or major disaster. I could even wind up in jail. Not necessarily likely, but possible. But at the same time, there was a certain excitement associated with it. As the day progressed, my excitement mounted. It was very much like the time I had agreed to go skydiving: class was fun, but that first time I knew I was going to step out of an airplane was a totally different kind of feeling. I wondered if this would end up the same way. After I had done it once, the second time just wasn't the same, and I gave it up. Of course, just as with skydiving, a second time wasn't guaranteed anyway. At two minutes before seven, I knocked on the door. Jenny opened it. She was dressed in blue jeans and a loose shirt and was carrying a dust cloth, which she had apparently been using. She said in her best voice, "Oh, good evening, Mr. Palmer. Won't you come in? Mother will be with you in just a moment." She then turned and screamed up the stairs. "Mom! He's here!" And then back again to the young sophisticate. "Please sit down. Could I get you some coffee or something?" "Yes, Larry? Would you like something?", Jenny's mother came walking down the stairs, all ready to go. Remarkable. "Or do we have time? By the way, I'm Helen. I don't think we quite got to that last night." "Helen, you look lovely!" She actually looked better than that, but I thought I'd better keep something in reserve. "Thank you very much, I think I will have a cup of coffee." "Coming right up!", Jenny said, and left the room. Helen smiled at me and shook her head, her eyes twinkling, as a sign of resignation with the behavior of her offspring. I started to relax, though I wasn't sure why. Nothing had happened to change my original misgivings about the probable end result of the evening, so it might have been simply contagious resignation. By the time Helen and I had seated ourselves opposite each other across the coffee table, Jenny was back: as good as her word. My relaxation was interrupted by Helen's next words. "So you got lucky, huh?" After a moment's no doubt delightful observation of my discomfort, she continued. "I wish my office were creative enough to think of raffling concert tickets. I'm afraid football pools for filthy lucre are more the style there; perhaps it's because with most of them music is more often associated with work." I breathed again, and without pausing more than was necessary to get her timing right, she followed up with, "Not that I object to taking their money, of course." I chuckled appreciatively (and honestly), and disavowed any incipient civilization on the part of my office mates, pointing out that someone had probably got stuck somehow with a couple of tickets which he had used the pool to get rid of. And then commented (again honestly), "This coffee is delicious!" "I'm afraid I'll have to give Jenny credit for the coffee. Though I feel compelled to add that I taught her how to make it." Helen paused, then said "You know, I did win something worthwhile once. I was in the third grade." She went on to tell a cute, and probably totally invented, or at least energetically edited, story about winning a typical third grade contest which gave her a book on the great composers. She told it well, and her timing was impeccable. She reached the punch line just as it was time to leave. I was no longer just relaxed, but impressed. And pliable, I'm afraid. Although I didn't realize it at the time, Helen had been taking command, in a way, or at least limited command, or at a minimum control. Never questioning, much less insistent, she used stories and anecdotes to tell me about herself, and also to get me to tell her about myself. And I loved every minute of it. And I told her. One mildly jarring moment came when we left. Jenny saw us to the door, and said cheerfully and innocently, "Good night Mom. Have a good time. I'll see you tomorrow." Although she had said nothing other than "OK, Jenny" at the time, once we were out of earshot Helen told me, "Much as I hate to, I suppose I'm obligated to explain that Jenny is going to spend the night at her friend's. Hence her remark about seeing me in the morning." I could feel her eyes twinkling in the darkness. While we were in the car on the way to the restaurant, I learned that the third grade book on composers had led to an interest in music which lasted until college, where she majored in music. At the restaurant (Chinese, always an effective litmus) she showed that she was a good, and skilled, eater. She knew how to select her food, and it was obvious that while not exactly a vegetarian, meat was not a primary part of her diet. She also knew the difference between good food and mediocre, and was not afraid to make the distinction once she had tasted it. Always a perfect lady, she could still make intelligent conversation about the food while she continued with her account of her personal history and her exploration of mine. She had grown up next door to Jenny's father -- a classic romance celebrated in teen songs immemorial, at least those of our era. They had dated throughout high school, and had gone to the same college, where they got married while she was a sophomore and he a senior, and when she had been three months pregnant with Jenny. His family had had money, so continuing school was not a problem, or even an issue. Jenny had been born in July, so Helen hadn't missed a class. Her husband by this time was already gainfully employed (as a junior executive in his father's company), so neither Helen nor Jenny were deprived of physical or emotional nourishment. Things started to fall apart shortly after Helen graduated. Not necessarily because of her graduation, but just because they had been married for a couple of years and marriage wasn't what they thought they had been waiting for all those years. By the time Jenny was three and a few months they had parted, more or less amicably. After the divorce, Helen had gone to work, first as a secretary, and then later by virtue of some school contacts, as a music instructor at the school where she had graduated. Work had not been a real necessity for her at the time, because her ex had been more than generous. Once they were apart they could stand each other again, and they remained friends. Until he died in a car accident a year or so later. He had left her name on his insurance policy. His family had never really accepted the divorce, still considered her part of the family, and offered to continue her support. She would not accept it; but she did decide that she needed to be more than a teaching assistant, so she went for and got her masters, and then her doctorate, and now had tenure. And together with my reciting my history to her, that took care of dinner. But unless you understand that I had never until then even confided to my mother or my ex-wife most of what I told her it would be very difficult to explain that I had been --in the most literal sense-- enchanted. As I drove from the restaurant to the concert hall, I tried to explain to myself what was happening. I thought back to that first time I had seen her coming down the stairs. I retraced every path that had been taken since then. Yes, she had been extraordinarily successful at milking me for my history, but it was more than that. Why had she been so successful? I had read before about two people sharing thoughts so closely that they seemed to anticipate each other, and I had not disbelieved it exactly, but I had not understood it. Now I understood. It was as though every time I thought of something, the same thought would occur to her simultaneously. Hard to describe, even harder to accept. Twilight Zone stuff. But it was truth. And by the way, as we left the restaurant, we were holding hands like a pair of teenagers. Which I don't suppose really has anything to do with any of this, but it somehow seemed important. The concert was highly satisfactory, although of necessity our conversation was interrupted. The first half included Prokofiev's Classical Symphony, and was heavy on the moderns with short pieces by Berg and Shoenberg, but the second half was the reason Helen was here, and we both knew it. Whoever the eclectic soul who had planned the program, he couldn't have done better for us. The Brahms second piano concerto would make up the second half, and it was special to both of us, though of course neither of us had known about the other's interest when the evening began. During the intermission we both learned of the other's feelings for the Brahms' Second, and I could sense the hair rising on Helen's arm just from talking about it. As we reentered the hall, she took my hand once more, and held it while we took our seats. Neither of us said a word from the time we left the lobby, and I don't know exactly why, but I do know that I could feel the electricity. Helen had never released my hand, and she gave a quick squeeze as the conductor came back on stage. I could sense her holding her breath as he raised his baton, and when the horn cadence broke the silence I could hear her softly gasp. On the entrance of the piano, she twisted her fingers through mine and I could feel the emotional electricity surge through both of us. From then until the final chord we were one. Indisputably, indistinguishably one. As we left the hall, neither of us spoke. She still held my hand, and I don't think that, other than while applauding, we had been away from each other's touch for a second. I heard myself say, "Helen, let's not go ..." at the same time she said, "Larry, let's not go..." We both laughed, and broke one spell only to fall into another. We stopped in a traditional post-concert bistro and sipped coffee and brandy and nibbled cheese while we tried to come down from the evening's high. The conversation was all in a much lighter vein than earlier in the evening, and we tried to outrage each other with totally outrageous puns, or perhaps outrace each other with slightly out-racy stories, or perhaps both at once. In short, we had a totally, outrageously, almost incomprehensibly glorious time! Although I am in the running for the world's worst dancer, I found courage enough to ask Helen to the postage-stamp dance floor during a slow number. Whether it was the brandy or just the mood, she agreed. I soon found that she was probably in the finals for the world's best dancer. And it didn't make any difference! She laughed with me, and her laughter made me happy. And we danced some more. And we laughed some more. And finally, just as I said, "Helen...", she said, "Larry...", and we both laughed. And laughing we left. We were both quiet again during the ride home, and I don't know why exactly, but it seemed right. And comfortable. I stopped in front of her house and parked the car. As I got out and walked around to open her door I noticed what a magnificent night it really was. The sky was clear, the moon was bright, and there seemed to be more stars visible than I had remembered seeing in a long time. She got out of the car and looked up at the sky. Without saying a word, I swear, we walked up to her stoop and turned and sat down looking up at the sky together. If it wasn't telepathy, it was a reasonable facsimile thereof. I put my arm around her, and she put her head on my shoulder. After a long time, I don't know how long, we both stood up at once, and Helen said, "Larry, won't you come in for a few minutes?" I could not have refused with a gun at my back. We walked up, she opened the door, and I stepped once more into her house. But this time we were alone. Helen shuttled me to the sofa, but without sitting herself, said, "Larry, could I get you something to drink while I get comfortable? Coffee? Or perhaps a glass of wine?" She paused for the tiniest, most perfect fraction of a second and continued, the wondrous twinkle in her eyes also reflected in her voice, "I promise not to put a move on you." Somehow that sounded comforting, though ... At any rate, I heard myself saying, "Yes, I think I would like a glass of wine." I dropped to the sofa, and before I had even settled myself, Helen had two glasses of wine on the table. She disappeared up the stairs, saying, "I won't be long..." The first time I had sat on Helen's sofa, I hadn't really been in any condition to examine my surroundings. Now I was. Jenny had obviously continued to work after we had left, but very little was really changed from that time. I now had a chance to scan through the piles of magazines on the table and in the rack, however. Eclectic, indeed, was my Helen. Not much in the way of pulp, however, nor, interestingly, was there anything from the world of music. "American Heritage", "American Scholar", "The New Yorker", "Wilson Quarterly", "American Spectator" and "National Review" (Aha! She was a Republican!), "New Republic", "Harpers", and "Atlantic" (No, perhaps not.) Then there was a copy of "Seventeen" (Jenny's, no doubt), and one of "Cosmo" (Helen's? or Jenny's?). Finally, not with the others, but on a bookshelf nearby there were current copies of the ACBL "Bulletin" and "Bridge World". Out of curiosity I examined the mailing label on the Bridge World: Yep. Helen Jenkins. Amazing. Just then, not more than six minutes at the most since we had entered, Helen came back down the stairs. She had changed into a pair of Chinese red lounge pajamas, very demure, but at the same time exotically enticing. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long", she said as she appeared. I stood to greet her, and she said, "Come help me pick out some music." She walked to a sideboard and opened the doors to reveal a large, though not imposing, collection of records, CD's, cassettes, and open reel tapes. The same eclectic taste shown in her magazines was here as well. But again, with the exception of a couple of records which looked out of place, there was nothing in the way of serious classical music. The open reel tapes were all collections of recordings from her other sources, and it was one of those which she (I?, we?) picked: hours of ballads in the Sinatra-Streisand vein. We had been sitting on the floor while we were looking through the music collection, and we stayed there as the music began to play. We listened together, passing a few words now and then, but silent much of the time. There was a magic present which I had never felt before. There was a calmness, a comfort, a peace, a perfection that I had not known even existed. I stretched out on my back and Helen snuggled up under my arm with her head tucked in against my chest, lying on her side with her knee resting lightly on mine. We held each other gently and now and then spoke quietly, almost breathlessly. The music played on, and our silences grew longer. I could feel Helen's steady breathing, and could sense her heartbeat. We lay together in a semi-trance state until we slipped gradually into sleep. I don't have any idea what time I actually went to sleep, nor do I know whether she went to sleep before me, after me, or together with me. And we awoke almost the same way we went to sleep. All I know is that the instant I knew I was awake, I was aware of Helen awake with me. Whether I woke her, she woke me, or we both awoke together I do not know. She purred contentedly, hugged me gently, and we both yawned and stretched. "Can I get you breakfast, Larry?", she asked brightly. "I always like to do breakfast for my men." The twinkle was still there. I glanced up at the clock. It was a few minutes after ten. "Jenny will be home soon", she said, reading my mind. "I don't mind if she finds you here, but if it would make you uncomfortable I can understand." "Ah, Helen!", I sighed, "I would love to stay for breakfast with you, but I really think I should go. Can I see you again soon? I mean very soon." "Is tonight too soon?", she answered. "Jenny's friend is coming over for dinner tonight, and we could certainly use a male presence at the table. All girl dinners on Saturday night are no fun." "I'll be here. What time should I come?" "Probably around six. I can send Jenny for you if we need you sooner. Okay?" "Okay. Helen, I don't know how to say this..." "Then don't. You don't need to anyway, you know." I did know. Somehow I did know. And so did she. Remarkable. I nodded thoughtfully. She stood up. "Then scoot! I've got work to do before tonight." She showed me to the door and ushered me out. "See you around six." "Okay." I was outside. The door was closed. I had just spent the night with the most remarkable woman I had ever met, and hadn't even kissed her. I stood for a few seconds on the sidewalk, looking at my car and debating with myself whether to bother driving it around the corner. Finally, I decided to leave it where it was and walked the few steps to my front door. I opened it, entered, and stood silently and motionlessly for a moment, trying to understand what was happening to me. I suddenly realized that I had left my tie at Helen's. No problem, I could pick it up tonight. I hung up my coat, then took off my shirt and pitched it into the hamper. Then I had a thought. I retrieved it, looked at it, and sniffed it. There were slight traces of her makeup on the left side, and it smelled very vaguely of Helen's scent. I put it on a hangar and put it back in the closet. Okay, it was adolescent. I admit it. So sue me. I decided to take a short nap, but to be on the safe side I set the alarm for four o'clock just in case. It was a good thing I did. -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /