Message-ID: <42940asstr$1055578208@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Message-ID: <20030613191050.9972.qmail@web10008.mail.yahoo.com> From: "H. Jekyll" MIME-Version: 1.0 X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Fri, 13 Jun 2003 12:10:50 -0700 (PDT) Subject: {ASSM} "Control, Part Two: Loss and Remembrance" (no story codes) Date: Sat, 14 Jun 2003 04:10:08 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, dennyw "Control, Part Two: Loss and Remembrance" By H. Jekyll * * * * * I do not use story codes anymore. This story contains explicit sex and great sexual cruelty. It is the tale of a woman who left her lover for a sexually dominant man, and who has descended into a world of sadism-for-profit on the internet. It is also a story of love and commitment. It previously appeared at "Ruthie's Club," which I recommend to readers, edited by Ruthie. An illustrated and formatted version can be found there. See: http://www.ruthiesclub.com/. Copyright 2002 by H. Jekyll. Permission is freely granted to post on any site that does not charge for entrance, as long as full attribution is given to the author. The story should not be read by anyone under the legal age to read sexually explicit stories, or by anyone in a location where it is illegal to read such stories. I appreciate comments and inquiries, even criticisms, and I absolutely promise to respond to them. Please send them to: h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com The H. Jekyll stories are archived in the Alt Sex Stories Text Repository (http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/h_jekyll/), and at "Ruthie's Club." * * * * * "Loss and Remembrance" A world dark and asleep. A world for Geoffrey, spread across the night and empty of people. There are always some people up and about, aren't there, even at the end of the evening? Not now and not here. Geoffrey drives along a parkway, watching the streetlights move by smoothly and quietly, one every few seconds, an endless procession of them, dignified and calm. He passes through a few blinking traffic lights. The green of the dashboard dials is so peaceful it makes him think of things far away and untouched, soft luminescence from distant stars or the bottom of the sea. He is playing space music on his car radio, playing it quietly, as background. It fits the otherworldly instrument lights. It fits the majesty of the street lights. The world is almost perfect. Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht. The air smells green and sleepy. Geoffrey stops at a 24-hour gas station. Someone is moving around inside, but Geoffrey pays by credit card at the pump. There are no other cars. Near home he passes a police car, going the other way fast without the blue lights flashing. On his street one house has a window lit. The rest are completely dark. He finally sees another person, a middle-aged black man riding an unlit bicycle on the other side of the street, peddling smoothly through the night. The house is stuffy. His and Anne's house, filled with things of hers he never got rid of. Anne's overdone couch. Her Modigliani print. The perfection of the night drains away. One of the cats greets him, so he pours her some dry food. He gets out four slices of bread and spreads peanut butter and strawberry preserves on them, and he pours a glass of milk. Then he takes the plate and the glass into the guest bedroom, off the living room, and turns on the computer. While it boots he eats the sandwiches and drinks the milk. He types the URL of the Web site. He types it in with no hesitations or guesses. When the site comes up, he clicks on the "Subscribe Now" button. He pulls a credit card from his wallet. Bill had shown him a streaming video file, the one that announced the live show. He decides to go there first. Start at the beginning. Click the fucking button, Geoffy. * * * * * I lost her. Shouldn't I let her go? Move on. She isn't for me anymore. She hasn't been for a year. Almost a year. When was it? September twenty-second. The first day of Autumn. My autumn. Oh quit being so melodramatic. It's just that I can't seem to do it yet. He stares at the keyboard. Anne and Geoffrey, sitting in a tree, f-u-c-k-i-n-g. They loved each other and lived together, and they were going to be married. It's like a breeze in the summer, something light and ephemeral and fresh, the sort of thing people turn their faces toward and smile. It is always like that until Geoffrey realizes he is going to follow the train of memories to the end. Then it's like waiting for the train wreck one knows is coming. Waiting for disaster. "You're my Anne of Green Gables," Geoffrey told her their first time together. When he thinks of her it is mainly of their sex. An effect of the Web site? More likely an effect of how and why she left. There were other things, their plans, their work, dinners, friends, but they fade. He remembers calling her his Anne of Green Gables. He remembers a lot about their first time. He was tracing her contours with his hand, across her small breasts and down her tummy and over her mons. He always wanted to touch her after sex. Sometimes it led to round two, but the touching was good whatever. "I can't be," she laughed. "I've read that book, and he doesn't get her, but you got me almost right away." "My nature girl. Pure-D luscious." "I'm not that pure either, you dope. And I like cities. Unless you'll be my Tarzan and carry me away to live in the jungle with you. Our neighbors can be the Swiss Family Robinson." Then she said in a stage whisper, "We could spy on the parents making love at night." She never used the word "fuck." And truth to tell, she wasn't that pure, not in the old sense. He remembers when she bought him an illustrated Kama Sutra for his birthday and insisted they read it together and try some of the more plausible positions. She got to talking about lingams and yonis, much more erotic, she said, than penises and vaginas. "My yoni is yearning for a long lingam to love," she whispered in his ear as he sat reading the paper one Sunday morning. "Does that mean we're having pasta?" he teased. She bit his ear and he had to chase her into the bedroom and wrestle her to the mattress for a couple of hours. Geoffrey thinks of when he first seduced her by cooking a meal of eggplant parmesan, angel-hair pasta, garlic bread, a store-bought Caesar salad, and a bottle of cheap sparkling wine. With Anne's help, his cooking improved dramatically. She could use some food now, he thinks. He told her one day he would eat a whole meal off her body. "Promises, promises," she smirked. Then out of the blue, one night, Anne said, "You can try kinky things with me, you know." He wonders. Did that signal something, something I missed? "Like what?" "Well, what would you like to do to me?" So Geoffrey blindfolded her and caressed and tickled her all over. He said, "You have to lie still, as though you're tied up." When she was really hot he raised her legs up and pushed them to her chest. Then he spanked her, little stinging spanks he alternated with pushing fingers inside her. But it wasn't just work and home, and it really wasn't just sex. He tries to think of things besides their sex. On weekends they sometimes drove up into the Smokies. In the summer they rafted or kayaked, once on the French Broad River, the other times with the hoards of weekenders on the Nantahala. Even thinking of those weekends, it's mostly the sex that stays with him. Anne looking for public places where she can stroke Geoffrey's fly and chance getting caught. Or searching out a clearing only yards from where rafters are floating by, and fucking within earshot of them. People are laughing and splashing the whole time, and Geoffrey muffles Anne's cries with his hand. Then they lie together and count how often dragonflies rest on their toes. Somehow Anne gets poison ivy on her leg. A winter weekend they drove to the Biltmore Mansion, almost empty because of rain, where Anne pulled Geoffrey into an empty room filled with nineteenth century portraits and 1920s-era bric-a- brac. She closed the door and they did it dressed, just their pants pulled down, leaning against the door and listening for docents, though if someone had actually come along they wouldn't have had time to get dressed. Leaning against her afterward, she leaning against the door, Geoff couldn't stop himself from saying, "My favorite play: 'A Winter's Tail.'" Later that winter they tried sex outside during their one big snowstorm, but Geoffrey almost got frostbite. No, not on his penis. That was kept nice and warm. She liked his parents; he tolerated her mother. "She's not so bad, Geoffy. You just have to get used to her ways." Surprise of surprises, neither mother minded if they slept together when visiting, but his father wouldn't let them do it. Oh the fun, sneaking into Anne's room right next door to the parents and trying to fuck quietly on those old, squeaky springs. Of course they tried to get time alone in their parents' houses, so they could fuck on parental beds. Doesn't everyone? Geoffrey wonders if Anne's mother knows how far her daughter has fallen. All the way down into Satan's world. Does she want to be in hell? Is it her desire? Does Anne visit her mother, and does her mother try not to mention how skinny her daughter is, or how odd she looks with all those piercings? Does her mother worry about anorexia? Geoffrey proposed to Anne in the middle of cooking a six-course Chinese dinner for some of their friends, his shirt covered with stains from sauces and drippings, surrounded by dishes and pans. The kitchen was full of steam. He left the wok unattended to ask her. "Geoffy, you are so romantic!" They announced their engagement to everyone when they served the flan for dessert, and they toasted it with plum wine. * * * * * Anne coming home laughing about Satan. It's his first day. It's the end of the good memories. The spiral is quick in retrospect. "You'd better watch out, Geoffy. He's the most gorgeous man any of us has ever seen." "Who is?" "The new exec they've sent down from New York to straighten out the Carolina division. Victor Bruno. They hired him from a firm that saves troubled companies like ours. Jane calls them a 'cut and slash' group because they give out a lot of pink slips. Anyway, you should have seen Maureen moon over him." "And how much did Anne moon over him?" "Oh, is my poor Geoffy all bothered?" "And how safe is your job?" Later -- how much later? -- she comes home impressed. "He knows these things, Geoff. He knows the problems we're having, and he knows what questions to ask. He's not like those clowns they sent down before." Here's Victor slashing the office workforce by twelve percent and promoting Anne to be his administrative assistant. Anne spending ever more time with him. "I have to work late again, Geoff." She talking about him all the time. Yes. And not just about work. "Victor's been everywhere, Geoff!" Geoffrey remembers her repeating stories about sexual shenanigans among the high mucky mucks in boardrooms and executive offices, in Congress, in embassies. Victor isn't judgmental. "He's even joined in sometimes," Anne says. She almost gushes. "Pretty cool. Did I ever tell you I was on the grassy knoll?" One day, "Victor says he's like Lucifer." "What does that mean?" "That he rejects... how does he call it?... artificial restraints imposed on his actions. He says he's free to pursue life on his own terms, one of the few really free people." "So he's really the Devil." "Don't you dare say that in front of him!" "Oh I won't. Just remember, though -- God is on my side." After a second he looks over at her and asks, "What does my good Catholic girl think about his philosophy?" Anne ignores the question and continues making the salad. The acceleration. Another day: "He told me you should tie me up and beat me, Geoffy." Geoffrey just looks at her. "He said you were lucky but shouldn't trust your luck. If I were his woman he would tie me naked in the hallway, and when he came home from work my body would be there for him to play with." "Anne? What the hell is this? You're letting him come on to you?" Is that what I said? I probably wasn't that strong. "No! No he wasn't. It sounds strange, but you had to be there. We weren't alone, you silly. There were four of us there, Maureen, Jane, Victor, and me. Our work group. People were joking about relationships and it came up, somehow, about love and trust and things. You know. Anyway, it was funny when he said it. Funny but sexy too. It made me want to have you tie me up." "I don't think so." Do it, damn it! Shit. "You could spank me for being a bad girl and having this naughty conversation with my boss. I'm really awfully horny." Finally looking Satan up on the Web. It's later in the game than you think. There's a Victor Bruno, all right, and he markets sex films, but there's no connection at all. Satan probably appropriated the name because of the sex tie-in. What's his real name? Does he have a real name? Don't be stupid. Then. No reason to rush through this any further. Geoffrey's gotten to it. He didn't know it at the time, not exactly, and not certainly, but yes. Anne went with Victor to an organizational meeting at the Chicago office. When she came home she wanted to make love in the dark. They'd always used candles, but it was the second week before she'd consent to candles again. She also stopped talking about Victor. Geoff didn't press her on it. A few weeks later, Anne came home very late from work. It was a Thursday. She had told Geoffrey she'd have to work late, that there was a deadline, but it was two a.m. when she slipped in. He'd called her at ten, just to make sure she was okay, and the phone had rung a long time before she'd picked it up. She'd sounded breathless. "I had to run down the hall from the copier room, Geoffy," she had said. "It may be the wee hours. The whole work group is staying late." Two a.m. She bathed and dressed in the bathroom and come to bed in a long gown. Too long for summer, and then she didn't want to snuggle. When she felt up to sex, a few days later, she wanted to make love in the dark again, but Geoffrey grew impatient and turned on a bed lamp and before she had a chance to cover up he saw a long, thin bruise on her left breast. He can still see the bruise. "What is that?" It was terribly silent for a moment, then she answered. "I got banged by a filing cabinet, Geoff. Why? Am I suddenly under suspicion of something? Do you want me to account for my every moment?" And Geoffrey apologized, of course. You don't accuse your beloved of what he thought, not without better reason. The next day, on a pretext, he called Jane, and during the conversation he asked if she'd enjoyed "E.R." last week. "To tell you the truth, I've had it with that show. Dave turned to CNN half way through and we went to bed early." No, no, the meeting hadn't been as bad as all that. They'd gotten take-out Greek food, and it had broken up around eight. * * * * * What do you do when you know? There are several options, none of them very good. Survey all the people who have had this particular revelation. You'll find people who have tried each, with indifferent results. What can you do? You can yell, but calling someone a whore seventeen times loses its effectiveness. Or be noble and talk about it. Then you're a wuss. Demand to know her intentions. But. But. Do you really want to be told you're number two now? Or worse? Leave, or better yet, kick her out. Now we're getting somewhere! Revenge! But it doesn't change the fact that once you were desired above all others, and now you're not. There's the other option. You can hide what you know, push it far down inside and try to pretend it doesn't exist. Try to act normal around her. Maybe it will pass. Maybe it's a phase, a thing, nothing. Try to touch her and kiss her in the usual way. Try to fuck as often, do the usual things, don't grimace when her mouth comes at you. Say "I love you" in your usual voice. Don't you dare cry in front of her! Cheat on her as much as she's cheating on you, by keeping everything secret, because you don't know what else to do and you're so afraid of losing her. After staring out the window most of the day, Geoffrey drove home and began dinner. He made some angel-hair pasta and was broiling salmon to go in it when she came in the door. "What's the special occasion?" she asked before she kissed him. "Nothing, sweetie. I just wanted to show how much I love you." He gave her a peck. Was that semen on her breath? Oh sure. "Sparkling wine is open in the fridge." They laughed a lot over dinner. She told a funny story about Maureen's boyfriend. Because he had cooked, she did the dishes, and while she was at the sink he walked up behind her and reached around to take both her breasts. "I know. There's nothing like a woman being domestic. Right, Geoffy?" She shrugged him off and finished up. He went to bed early and lit three sandalwood-scented candles. He worked himself up and waited for her, but when she finally came back she said, "I'm sorry, honey, but I had a bad day. I really don't feel up to it." Of course. He understood. No he wasn't upset. He wasn't really all that sexy himself. He lay in bed while she slept with her back to him, looking up at the ceiling, his left hand resting on her hip. After enough time had passed he went out into the living room and sat on the couch awhile. * * * * * Would it have been different if Geoffrey hadn't gone home when he did? If he'd endured the campus a few more hours? Met a few more students? Who among us can know the destinations of all the paths we don't take? He's thought about it and decided it wouldn't have made a bit of difference. He left campus at lunchtime, and he remembers the glossy black Saab in the driveway. Victor hadn't bothered to park it down the block. Geoffrey parked at the curb. It was sunny. A mowing crew was working across the street. He waved to them. No jets fell from the sky to take his mind off what he was going to find. As he walked past the Saab he stared into it, at pale leather seats. Everything neat, precise. Tidy. Anne's car was in the carport. He didn't look at it, or at the crumpled burger wrappers, wax drink cups, or napkins she'd collected. He turned the kitchen door knob. It wasn't locked. No security at all. Of course their voices carried out to the kitchen. They were in the guest bedroom, which opened off the living room, the room Geoff sits in now, clicking the icon that will show Anne announcing her subjugation to the world. Geoffrey leans forward and turns up the volume so he won't miss anything. It needs to be loud enough. Last year he was quiet. He closed the kitchen door silently. Anne was making sex cries, only partly cries, mostly gasps. The same breathy sounds she made for Geoffrey. "Are you ready?" It was Victor's voice, Satan's voice, the one Geoffrey had only heard once or twice. It was a warm voice, deep, confident, well-modulated, the beautiful voice from the Web site. Anne gasped once more, then said, "Yes! Do it Victor. Don't do it where it will show, though. Please. I can't hide everything." Satan laughed a pleasant laugh. "Oh you'll have to hide these. Until they heal tell him you can't screw because it's your period." Anne made another gasp. "I can't." She was panting. "It won't work. He doesn't care when I bleed." "Well neither do I. Here we go." Anne said "Aaaa!" It went on for several seconds. There was pain in it, but it wasn't a desperate sound. Not a loud cry, but high pitched and jerky and even more breathy. By the time she stopped Geoffrey was almost to the guest room. He stopped behind a dieffenbachia, as though he could hide behind it. Tonight he feels stupid about that, but the dieff almost stopped him. If he moved to the side he'd be able to see inside. Satan said, "You understand now, don't you? I'm going to suckle it." Anne cried "Aaaa" again, but it changed into a sex cry in the middle. A sex cry, but different. Her cries went on. Then her voice, breathless, "Finish me. Don't make me wait! Oh God, I'm so high!" Geoffrey was just outside the door, gathering himself. "No. First I'm going to do it where you can say it *is* from your period." Anne started saying "Aaaa" a third time. It was then that Geoffrey rounded the door. Anne was tied tightly to the bed with cotton ropes, hands and feet at the four corners. There was a large towel underneath her body. Both she and Victor were naked, and along with everything else, Geoffrey remembers how struck he was by Victor's beauty. He had fine facial features, high cheekbones, large eyes, thick black hair. He was muscular, dark and fit, with a little chest hair, and he sported a pale erection that ended with a thick head. Victor was leaning over Anne's vulva with a cutting tool in his hand. It held a single-edged razor. Anne's head was back and her eyes were closed. Her face and neck were red and a vein popped up on her throat. There's more. A thin line of red ran off a nipple, meandered down her breast, and stopped at her chest wall. They would have noticed Geoffrey eventually, but he didn't wait. "You'll have to stop that now." Anne shrieked, but Victor turned to him with an amused look. As though he'd known Geoffrey was there all along. "Well Anne, love. It looks like you're going to have to explain things to him earlier, rather than later." So they'd discussed him. Victor rose and dressed, not in haste, not trying to hide his erection. Anne pulled at her ropes and turned her face from Geoffrey to Victor and back, while Victor buttoned his starched, white shirt. He dressed in a charcoal suit with faint pin striping. He draped a yellow tie around his neck. Anne was struggling and breathing hard -- not sex panting anymore. She looked desperate. Geoffrey never moved. He just stood there, waiting for Victor to leave. Another bit of red was visible at Anne's vagina. Finally, Victor loosened Anne's hands from the head and foot boards by giving each rope a quick pull. He walked past Geoffrey, who moved away to let him go, and down the hall. Tonight Geoffrey doesn't think he looked amused. That wasn't it. He looked satisfied. * * * * * "Anne. We're going to have to talk sometime. If you want me to leave, I will, but we have to talk eventually." The moment she was free, she had grabbed her clothes, run into the bathroom, and locked the door. That was forty-five minutes ago. She hadn't responded to him, to his knocking or his voice. When he stood close to the door he could hear her breathing and moving around. Geoffrey sat down on the edge of the bed again, his hands clasped together between his legs, looking at the carpet. A drop of blood lay about three feet from the bed, on the bathroom side of it. He inhaled enormously and let the air out slowly. Another ten minutes passed. He got off the bed and walked to the bathroom door. "Okay, Anne. I'll go now. You can get hold of me at my office. When you can do it, we have to talk." He hadn't raised his voice once. There was the sound of something brushing against the door, then her voice came through it. "Don't go, Geoff. Don't. Please. Give me a minute." He stepped back, and a minute later she opened the door. She emerged slowly, looking downward, stepped around him, and sat on the bed. She was dressed in blouse and skirt, no shoes, no stockings. She looked at the floor. She was solemn. Geoffrey seated himself beside her, very carefully, far enough away so they didn't touch. They began the conversation. Many have had it. It marks almost the end of Geoff's memory of the event. It was quiet, with false starts and long breaks between statements. There was no reason for anyone to lie anymore. The facts one might most want to hide were public. Anne spoke in a voice just over a whisper. Geoffrey spoke quietly and evenly, the voice of a man controlling himself, a man who mostly needed to resolve things, who knew there was nothing to be gained by shaming or yelling or threatening. The voice of a man resigned. Tonight he wonders: Why didn't I act more like a man? She spoke first. "I'm sorry Geoff." She sighed. "I guess you know what was going on." He didn't answer for a second. Then, "I know enough. What I don't know is, are we through?" His voice broke at the word "through." He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them she was looking directly at him for the first time. "I don't know. I love you, Geoff. I'm sorry for all this. I do love you. I just don't know what is going to happen." Geoffrey grimaced. He clenched his fists and took a breath. "Then I'll be going." "Why?" More silence, while he thought. "If you don't know, then you know. You want him. You want what he does. I can't stay with a person who wants another man like that. I can't, Annie." He stood. "Wait. Please Geoff. Please don't go. I don't want you to go." "So what am I to do? Be your housekeeper and hand holder while you decide how much you want someone who'll tie you up and mutilate you? You can't have everything, Anne. I won't do that for you." After a minute, "He didn't mutilate me." Her first bit of resistance. Geoff almost smiles at the memory of the statement. Nice and feisty. His strong-willed Annie, throwing off her shame to set the record straight and assert herself. It was the first bit of herself in the talk. His Annie indeed. He didn't see it that way at the time, though. He didn't almost smile that time. He screamed at her. "Oh, excuse me for misinterpreting!" Geoffrey stopped himself. Anne had cringed when he yelled. He held up his hands, fingers spread, and moved them out and back several times as though pushing away his feelings. When he spoke his voice was quiet and soft again. "It doesn't matter, Anne, just exactly what he was doing to you, or what you were doing with him. It's things I can't do. That I won't do. I won't compete for you that way. And I won't just wait for you to finish this voyage of self discovery. You can have him, but I'm leaving." She started crying. Two o'clock. Three o'clock. A lot gets said. A lot doesn't. There are agreements and there's bargaining. She won't see Victor anymore. She'll quit her job. They'll stay together. They'll sleep in the same bed. There's no hurry on sex, is there? They'll get through it. But three weeks later he came home to an empty house and the letter. Geoffrey realizes how everything about breaking up is trite, repetitive, derivative. Maybe everything in the world is. You fit your life into one or another pattern that millions have followed and to you it's unique. It doesn't matter. It's your life. So there was a "Dear Geoffrey" letter. It doesn't matter how many there have been. He memorized the lines. She will always love him. It isn't him, but her. She has to go with Victor, her Morning Star. She can't keep cheating on Geoffrey, but has to make a clean break. She hopes he can forgive her one day. On and on, world without end, amen. She could have left out the part about the Morning Star. The evening and the morning are the first day of Geoffrey's new world. He finally clicks the icon. End of Part Two. __________________________________ Do you Yahoo!? Yahoo! Calendar - Free online calendar with sync to Outlook(TM). http://calendar.yahoo.com -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+