The Big Time Pt. 01
“Standard Disclaimer:
You must be 18 to read this story, be able to read erotica in your community, not be offended by the contents of it…you know the rest.
This story may NOT be distributed freely, for commercial or non-commercial use.
This work is complete fiction; celebs don’t act like this in real life…probably.”
“Any copyrighted names, works, or whatever are products of their respective owners.”
“Constructive criticism is welcome and wanted. Please send any thoughts you may have.”
*Prologue*
*8:13 am. Monday, December 16, 2002. Bethesda, Maryland.*
Joseph Torbin stepped out of his limo onto the corner of Adams and Main. The sky was clear and blue, the weather bitingly cold. Today was a very important meeting between the top executives of Lockheed Martin. They were entering a critical phase of development in their F-35 JSF program. The initial flight testing had been completed over a year ago, and it was now time to finally bring these jets into a combat ready form.
The Joint Strike Fighter variants employed a revolutionary propulsion system, along with many commonalities that would save billions of dollars in maintenance in the long run. Torbin is the head of the R&D division, credited with coming up with the innovative propulsion system. He was to give a cost projection and timeline for this lucrative project that would supply jets to the US Navy, Air Force, the British Royal Air Force, and several international partners. Up to now, everything was on schedule and on budget. Torbin sighed, he was about to go to the top floor of the massive Lockheed headquarters and tell them that everything was about to change. They were not going to be happy about this.
He entered the lobby, flashed his ID badge at the security guard, and pressed the elevator call button. One of his fellow engineers walked up next to him. He was young, bright eyed, and brilliant. And also extraordinarily naïve. The sooner he realized that there were a thousand guys just like him gunning for his job, the better.
“Going up to give them the bad news?” he asked.
“Yep, I just hope they don’t fire my ass.”
“It’s not your fault, Joe. This was just a computer fuckup,” said his friend as they got into the elevator. Torbin pressed the button for the top floor.
“This was a fuckup of epic proportions, Larry. EPIC. Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost Lockheed?”
“No, but I’m guessing you do.”
Torbin rubbed his temple. “Yes, I do.”
“We’re all behind you, Joe. If you want, we’ll all go up there too and vouch for you.”
Torbin managed a small smile. Larry was exaggerating, he was probably the only loyal one out of the entire division. This was due in no small part to Torbin’s mentoring of the young engineer.
“No need, Larry. The whole team need not be punished for this.”
The elevator stopped on the 46th floor. “Well, good luck Joe,” said Larry as he stepped out of the elevator.
“Yeah, thanks. I’m going to need it.”
***
Michael Torbin walked out of the umbilical into the airport terminal, carrying a black duffel bag. He looked around and saw his mother waving at him from one of the seats. He walked over and stood before her.
“So, how was school?”
“Fine.”
“Grades?” It was more of a statement than a question.
“A’s. Just like you wanted.”
“All of them?” said his mother sternly.
“Yes, I got an A in every class.”
“Good. Let’s go get your luggage.”
The two of them walked out of the terminal and down to the luggage area. The buzzer sounded and bags came tumbling down the ramp.
“How’s this thing with dad coming along?”
“Not good. He’s actually delivering the news right now. Is that your bag?”
“No. After all this time, they still couldn’t find the data? How is that possible?”
“You know how your father is. He’d rather fail than ever ask for help. Once he realized he didn’t have it, and couldn’t find it, well…”
“He’s going to take responsibility for it?” His mother nodded. “He’ll be fired, won’t he?”
“We’ll see Michael, we’ll see.”
*Chapter One: The Weekend*
*7: 41 pm. Friday, May 16, 2003. Chicago, Illinois.*
“Come on boy, tests are over, vacation is about to begin and I have a wad of cash to blow. It’s time to get hammered.”
“You can call my dog, ‘boy.’ Don’t ever call me boy. And I’ve got too many things on my mind-”
“All the more reason to come get piss drunk with me. You’ve got the next week to worry about just how far down the shitter your life is going. Tonight, you drink.”
“Maybe you’re not hearing me, Tom. I “know” how far down the shitter my world is going. What I’m worrying about is how exactly I’m going to climb my way out.”
“Well,” Tom paused. “Hmm. You’re fucked. Fucked, fucked, fucked, fucked. There’s nothing you can do about it. Short of bending over and letting Ruszinzko take you up the ass, that is.”
“Yeah, well, I feel like I’ve already been anally raped by all my professors this week. I just showed up to each test with a giant smile on my face, proceeded to remove my pants, grab my ankles, and begged them to shove these finals up my ass as far as they could go.”
Michael Torbin buried his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes as hard as he could. It was not going to be pleasant explaining his grades to his parents. And if taking the exams felt like getting raped up the ass, then groveling for his parents to continue his college funding was going to feel like getting on his knees and sucking off the guy who just raped him. The gods of test scheduling had decreed that all six of his finals be taken during the first two days of exam week with advanced biochem and multivariable calculus leading the way. Tom had pretty much the same schedule, but he seemed pretty confident of “his “grades. He stood up from their rather dilapidated couch.
“Jesus, you’re a downer.”
“So is alcohol.”
“Yes, but where’s the pleasant side effects? The inflated sense of self esteem? The suddenly beautiful women?”
Michael sighed. The last time he went on a bender, his parents cut his food allowance in half. The prospect of eating nothing but ramen noodles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner again had kept him on the straight and narrow for awhile now.
“Well?” asked Tom. “Get up man, let’s go put some brain cells out of our misery.”
*8:07 pm.*
After tying the dog up outside the house, Michael and Tom took the L train downtown to a nice bar on Lake Street that the two frequented. The bartender was a man named Steve, an elderly gentleman who took a liking to the two students and was rather lax about checking their ID’s. Many a debate between Michael and Steve was had over the Bears, Cubs, Sox, and any and all things sports related.
The place itself was absolutely beautiful. 19th century design, leather couches and chairs, pool tables, big screen TV’s, even a few chess tables. Steve and his wife Lisa somehow ran the whole place by themselves, with a bit of hired help on the weekends when it was really crowded. Lisa was in her mid 40’s, 5′ 7″, curvy, mischievous eyes and had a vivacious personality that drove men wild when she was younger. Over the years, quite a few drunken men had made passes at her. But Steve had a bit of a temper, and those guys never hit on her again, lest they receive a swift, right cross to the jaw.
It was a cool night with a nice breeze that day. The place wasn’t quite jumping yet, but there was a decent crowd there with a few absolutely gorgeous women drinking whatever frilly drink it is that gorgeous women drink. Tom’s head was a swivel, but Michael was too busy wallowing in self-pity to care. They found a couple of empty stools and saddled up for the large amounts of painkillers they were about to ingest.
“Evening gentlemen, what can I get for you?” asked Lisa.
“Hi, Lisa.” said Tom. “Gimme a Guinness.”
“I’ll have a double tequila,” said Michael.
“Coming up,” Lisa spun around and just as quickly turned back with the drinks.
Michael downed his in one gulp and asked for another.
“Bad day, honey?” asked Lisa as she refilled his glass.
“You could say that,” he said as he downed his drink again and tapped the bar with his knuckle. “Where’s Steve?”
“Upstairs playing chess. The man decides to learn how to play chess on our busiest night of the week, the big lush.” said Lisa. “So, come on you, tell me about it.”
Michael decided to let Tom take the lead.
“He’s just depressed because he single handedly destroyed his life. Yep, his life is very over. Dead man walking. Quite a feat actually. And he has no one to blame but himself.” said Tom. “Another Guinness, please.”
“Screw you Tom,” said Michael as he downed his third drink of the last sixty seconds.
“Just because I’m the king of cramming doesn’t mean you have to be jealous. Well, considering your situation, yeah, you probably should be.” He took a big swig of his beer.
“I don’t see why kids today are in such a hurry to grow up, graduate college and get a job. Real life isn’t all that exciting. You gotta slow yourself down, boy.” said Lisa. “You’re still young. Take a semester or two off. Go find yourself some young woman to love, or at least make love to.”
She spoke the last part with a bit of a twinkle in her eye. Or maybe the tequila was starting to take its toll on Michael.
“Right Lisa, and if a big suitcase of money falls out of the sky and into my lap, then maybe I’ll take some time off. But hooking up with a girl certainly sounds like a good idea. Ah, I don’t know.” Michael looked down at his empty glass. “Can you give me a drink that I can nurse for a few hours?”
“Sure. I got just the thing, but give me a minute, ok?” replied Lisa sweetly. She turned and really put on a show of mixing the drink. She was a virtuoso with glass bottles and metal mixers.
Tom looked at him. “He’s not going anywhere, Lis, I however, am certainly feeling the vibes from that redhead over there. Excuse me for a moment, or the night if I got my mojo going.”
He picked up his drink and sauntered towards the other end of the bar where a few women were sitting. One of them was a beautiful young girl, quietly sipping some pink concoction. Michael locked his eyes on her. He couldn’t stop staring. She was a real cutie. Subdued blue eyes and medium length blond hair that perfectly framed her face. A dictionary definition of young, feminine beauty. And also very, very familiar but Michael couldn’t quite place her. She glanced up, raised her eyebrows a bit and gave him a slight little smile. He looked straight back at her but he still couldn’t figure out who she was. Tom finally sidled up next to the redhead and she looked towards them. Despite Tom’s boastings and his numerous former girlfriends, his encounters with women were the stuff of comedic legend around the university. He was a good guy, he just needed to keep his arrogance in check. Or someone to keep it in check for him.
“Hey there, still with me?”
Michael looked back at Lisa. “Of course, I’m not a lightweight you know.”
“Maybe not for booze. But it doesn’t take much more than a beautiful woman to make your head spin.” She said as she noticed the girl sitting across the bar from him.
“Are you offering?”
“You want Steve to break your nose? Here, take this drink and go sit down over near those girls you and Tom were gawking it. I think Tom is trying to break the record for the number of drinks thrown in his face in a row.”
“Seven by my count.” Michael picked up my drink and made his way over to a table near his friend. Michael settled in, perked up his ears as best he could and tried to listen in over the din of the crowd.
“Jersey? Really? Do you know Angus McCloud?” asked Tom. Michael snickered. He was unable to hear her replies, since he was sitting at her back.
“Strange, he’s a pretty big player in the cracker industry there…Oh me? I’m from Minnesota, from the twin cities, not sure which one.” “Oh man was that lame. “Michael put his drink down. He didn’t want to spit all over himself when the inevitable reject came.
“Oh, you have a boyfriend. (”here comes the drink”) What’s his name? (”she’s gripping the glass tighter”) IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT HIS NAME IS! (”She’s rearing back”) ‘Cause you see, once you come home with me, baby, you won’t remember his name. You won’t even remember your name! (”Splash”)
Or maybe not. She didn’t do a damn thing. For a few seconds at least. They stood up together and Tom’s eyes were wide. He was as surprised as Michael was that his shtick worked. He was even more surprised when she slugged him across the face, gave him the finger and walked out of the bar. Michael almost fell over in his chair, he couldn’t stop laughing. Tom rubbed his cheek and came and sat down across the table from Michael.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yuk it up you faggot.” said an exasperated Tom.
“Hahaha, whoa she, hahaha, really nailed, hahahahaha, you didn’t she?” replied Michael, barely able to contain himself.
“Fuck you.”
“I guess the record stands at seven.”
“What record?”
*10:35 pm.*
The two of them sat around drinking, joking, watching the people go by. The topic of choice jumped around a lot from Tom’s encyclopedic knowledge of synonyms for breasts to the fifty different ways Michael could think of for his parents were going to trash his life. The crowd was thinning out when the topic got on women.
“I think women have too much power over me.”
“That’s ’cause you’re a pussy.”
“Shut the fuck up. Dealing with guys has never been a problem. Dealing with attractive women is like trying to rob a bank; there’s a whole mess of goodies in there if you can just get past the guards.”
“What about the ones that like you back?”
“That’s when the vault closes with you inside.”
“You’re more cynical than my father is.”
“It’s probably just the alcohol talking,” said Michael with a sigh.
“You act as if women are more trouble than they’re worth,” said Tom. Michael raised his eyebrow at him. “I think it’s been too long since you got laid.”
“Probably, I think it’s making me see things. I could’ve sworn one of the girls at the bar gave me a look, like she was interested. It’s been on my mind for the last couple hours.” Michael shook his head. “God, all it takes is a hair flip or brief stare to fuck up a drunkard’s night.”
“No way, even less. Ever find it sexy when a woman flips you the bird?”
“Can’t say that’s ever happened to me.”
“I thought I was gonna poke that girl with my erection when she hit me and gave me the finger.”
“Jesus, grow up man. You’re just a glutton for punishment when you talk to women. I can’t believe your stuff works on anyone who’s sober.”
“Heh, women can get just as horny as men. Sometimes looks are all that it takes.”
“Yeah, lot of good that does me. All I have to rely on is being a nice guy. And X, I guess.”
“Hey,” Tom said quietly. “That blond chick has been sitting there for a while now. I think she’s been listening to us.”
“Really? I figured she would have left with the friend who beat you up.”
“Screw you, that was a sucker punch. Why don’t you give it a shot? She’s pretty hot.”
Michael considered it for a few moments. She was a real beauty and had a great body from the glances he stole of her. She was wearing a simple, red, summer dress, flowery and whatnot. She was still sitting there, sipping her drink, as if she were waiting for something. And, of course, Michael hadn’t forgotten about the fleeting look she gave him a few hours ago.
“Nah. It takes an entirely different mindset then the one I’m in to talk to a woman. And I’m not very graceful when I’m drunk.”
“Just get up and talk to her,” urged Tom.
“You know my track record with girls when I’m drunk. And you think I “won’t” make a fool of myself if I go and talk to a woman as stunning as that one?”
“Fine, you pansy. I’m sick of talking to you anyway. Maybe I’ll go talk to her.”
The image of this girl storming out of the bar after kneeing Tom in the balls quickly changed Michael’s mind. Besides, he needed a refill anyway.
“Wait! Just give me a sec to get my bearings.”
“Good, some pussy will definitely clear your mind.”
The woman flinched slightly when Tom said that. She “was” listening to their conversation. Michael went a little ways down the bar and got a beer from Lisa. Suddenly he became very nervous, which was fine, sometimes he couldn’t even talk to Tom without becoming nervous. What wasn’t fine was that he was just a little shaky from the alcohol. “Okay, just sit down and you’ll be fine, Michael”, he thought to himself. He managed to walk over and sit down near her without looking like a total klutz.
Right as he was opening his mouth, she looked at him and said, “You know, your friend is an asshole.”
“That he is, that he is. His encounter with your redheaded friend wasn’t very pretty, was it?” he said as he desperately tried to keep his eyes from peering down her loose dress.
“She wasn’t my friend. I just think your buddy over there is a pig.”
“He’s more of a boar, actually.” She smiled slightly at his pun. “You came alone?” Michael was more than a little puzzled. Women like this don’t walk the streets of Chicago at night alone.
“No, actually I have a…friend waiting outside for me.”
“How long has she been waiting? You’ve been here for a long time,” he said a little absentmindedly. She blinked and peered at him. Michael began to lose himself in her eyes. At least he didn’t have to worry about staring at her tits anymore.
Then she flashed a playful smile. “Have you been watching me?”
“Have you been eavesdropping on us?” he countered.
She blushed, making herself look quite adorable. “Actually, I’m here doing a little…research. Yeah, that’s the term for it.”
“Are you a psych student? Interested in the social habits of drunks and assholes?”
“No, I’m not a student.” She smiled. “This is for a part actually. You know, acting?”
Michael’s eyes widened. “HOLY SHIT”. “No fucking way,” he said quietly.
“I was wondering when you were gonna recognize me. My breasts aren’t “that” much of a distraction are they?” She grinned and reached her hand out. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Kirsten Dunst. And you are?”
“Michael,” he said as he shook her hand.
“Michael what?”
“Michael.” He was still in a stupor.
“Okay, Michael Michael, nice to meet you,” She was laughing again. A wonderful, lilting feminine laugh.
“Um, Torbin, actually. Michael Torbin.” he said as he finally found his communication facilities again.
She looked at her watch. “Well Michael, now that I’ve said hello, I have to say goodbye,” Michael looked like a little lost puppy. “Oh, don’t feel bad. You just have bad timing.”
“How bad?”
“Maybe not so much bad timing as a lack of vision. You made me wait two and half hours for you to come talk to me and now I have to leave.” She was a little disappointed.
Michael stared down at his beer, then looked up and asked her if he could at least walk her out.
“Sure. Wouldn’t mind that at all,” she said as she stood.
Tom gave him a questioning look as they walked out and Michael gave him just the slightest shake of his head.
“You haven’t struck out yet, slugger.”
“Perceptive, aren’t you?” said Michael as he opened the door for her and they walked outside. “So who is this friend you have waiting for you?”
“He’s my bodyguard, but we get along well.”
As soon as they turned the corner, he almost walked into a brick wall of a human being. He was a thick black man, at least 6′ 4″ and muscular, and what was almost certainly a holster and pistol were hiding inside his coat. He seemed a bit leery of Michael escorting Kirsten out of the bar. Michael had no idea what he was worried about, the guy could have flicked Michael away like a booger if he wanted. Michaelwas a bit leery of the knowing glances he and Kirsten shared.
k and forth, nudging my clit.
“Faster,” I urged, spreading wider, moving my hips to rock against his tongue. It was like heaven, the sensation carrying me on shivering wings. He responded to my eagerness, his hands moving to hold onto my hips, my ass. I couldn’t help moaning softly, cupping my breasts and squeezing my nipples as he licked and licked.
When his finger slid inside me, I gasped, my eyes flying open. I had wiggled myself half under the Christmas tree and looked up into the splay of branches strung with multicolored lights and tinsel shining in the dimness.
“Dale!” It wasn’t a protest—more of question, but I couldn’t follow it up with anything, because his fingers—two of them now—were moving slowly in and out of my pussy. Is that what it’s going to feel like? I wondered, as I rocked against his hand. Will his cock feel that good, pressed up inside of me.
“Ohhhh god, yes!” I cried as his tongue worked and his fingers plunged into my flesh, the wet sound filling the room. “Faster, Dale, harder!”
He had never taken me there, in the times we’d been together. I’d come very, very close but I’d never climaxed with him. I would often touch myself after our dates, coming to a shuddering climax at the memory.
“You’re going to make me cum!” My words urged him on, his groan vibrating through my belly as he licked and sucked at my little clit, his fingers driving in and out of my pussy with delicious force. I felt it coming, that throbbing itch about to be scratched, my belly taut and quivering with it.
When it finally came, I found myself grabbing his hair, moaning and rocking my hips up to meet his mouth. I twisted and squirmed, riding my climax like a wave, trembling under his tongue. My pussy spasmed again and again around his probing fingers, and I felt him slip another one in, stretching me wide, making me moan.
“Oh my god!” I gasped, reaching for him, wanting him. He came to me, then, kissing me, the musky taste of me in his mouth a shock as our tongues met. His clothed body against mine was an annoyance and I pulled at his shirt, watching as he peeled it off and then leaned in again to kiss me.
I hooked my thumbs in his belt loops, tugging his jeans down. He didn’t waste any time sliding them off and we rolled on the floor together naked until somehow I ended up on top of him, rubbing my wetness against his cock with no barrier between us. Dale’s eyes were half-closed and hopeful, and while he didn’t push me, his hands on my hips, pressing me close, told me what he wanted. Suddenly a little scared, feeling how hard and how… well… big!… he felt between my thighs, I decided to slide down between his legs this time.
“Oh Sara,” he moaned when I took him into my mouth, my tongue rolling around the head, licking along that sensitive ridge. He really liked that. I grazed my fingernails over his thighs as I sucked him, trying to take more and more with every pass. Sometimes I made a game of it, using my finger as a marker to assess my progress. I’d never made it more than halfway.
“Oh… wait… Sara!” His hand was in my hair and he pulled me off his cock, grabbing it and squeezing hard. I watched, wide-eyed, as the tip of his cock leaked pre-cum in a slow, steady stream. “Jesus… that was close…”
“Close?” I leaned in and kissed the tip, tasting him and licking my lips.
“Yeah,” he gasped, watching me. “I almost came in your mouth.”
I smiled, sliding up and straddling him. “Well… that’s not where I want you to cum…”
His eyes widened as I slipped the slick head of his cock between my slit, rubbing it up and down my wetness. “Sara… are you… sure?”
Nodding, I pressed the tip against my pussy, aiming him. “I want you to cum in me…”
“But—” Dale groaned as I started to sink down onto his cock. “Is it safe, are… ohhhhh jesus god…!”
“I’ve been on the pill since I was fifteen,” I murmured, wincing as he pressed into my flesh. I could feel him relax, his hands moving to my hips, not pressing, just holding me. He felt so huge! I wiggled, leaning forward to balance myself with my hands on his chest, moving just the head of him in and out.
“Oh baby,” he moaned and I met his eyes. They were half-closed and dazed-looking. “I can’t believe how good that feels…!”
“I think it gets better,” I whispered, deciding to do it like ripping off a band-aid—quick and painless—sliding down his shaft and settling my hips into his. The pain made me cringe for a moment, but I was so wet from his mouth that it was probably much less than it could have been.
Dale groaned loudly, his hands gripping my hips and pressing up. I watched his face as I started to rock, back and forth at first, and then using the long muscles in my thighs to move up and down on him.
“Sara,” he murmured, running his hands up over my belly to my breasts, cupping them as I rode him. “God, you’re so beautiful…”
He was rocking with me now, arching up and pressing himself deep inside of me. I clutched him, grinding down against his hips, feeling him fill me over and over.
“Baby, I can’t—” he gasped into my ear, his breath ragged. “Ohhh god, I can’t stop it…!”
“Cum,” I whispered, squeezing my pussy around his shaft and hearing him groan. “Cum for me!”
He did, his whole body stiff for a moment as he thrust upward one last time, his hips bucking me as he came. I could feel the throbbing of his cock, like a pulse between my legs, and thick surges of heat as he filled me with his cum.
“Merry Christmas, Dale,” I whispered, leaning in to kiss him, feeling his hands move over my back, stroking my hair.
He held me close, whispering my name over and over into my ear. He pulled a blanket from the sofa over us and we snuggled under the Christmas tree and stared up through the branches at all of the lights and decorations. I was feeling something, and I couldn’t quite identify it at first. It had crept in while I wasn’t looking, as quiet as the snow falling outside, blanketing everything. Surprised, I recognized the feeling at last: I was happy.
——————–
*Love is Alright Tonight by Rick Springfield
**Living in Oz by Rick Springfield
——————–
*
>^,,^
As if they read each other’s mind, the Frasier women’s hands drifted down to Sam’s golden triangle and met as fingers began to probe the hot, slick folds of the major’s pussy.
Janet looked across at her daughter and saw the lust in her eyes. “Shall we, daughter o’mine?” Janet asked.
“Oh yes, let’s. Together!”
Both of them scooted down the bed and straddled Sam’s outstretched legs. Then they kissed briefly before replacing their fingers with their tongues.
After bumping heads a few times and giggling each time, Janet moved up slightly and concentrated on Sam’s rock hard clit. Cassie lavished the sopping labia with her tongue and drank as much of Sam’s cum as possible.
“OH! GOD! JAAANET! CASSSSSSIE! YOU ARE BOOOOOOTH TOOOO…MUCH!!! AAAAAHHHH!!!! FEEEEEELSSSSSS SSSSOOOO WOOOONDERRRRRRRRRRFULLLL!!!”
Both Frasiers pressed their pussies against Sam’s legs, their cum flowing over the blonde’s shins. Soon, all three were moaning and rocking against each other.
As she felt herself near to coming again, Janet bit lightly on Sam’s clit. The blond major jerked and climaxed all over Cassie’s face. Both Janet and Cass rubbed harder against Sam and came right after her.
“Mom, you wanna taste Sam?” Cassie asked. Janet nodded and the girl kissed her mother, thrusting her cum-wet tongue deep into the brunette’s mouth.
“Mmmm. Delicious!” Janet declared. “I want more…”
“And I want to try something too,” Cassie said.
The teen rolled Sam on her side so the blonde was facing the doctor. Then, she shoved the woman’s leg up and pushed her face into Sam’s ass. Janet watched, fascinated, as her daughter ate her best friend’s ass. She knew she’d be doing the same to Sam and to Cassandra before the night was over.
“Sam, to thank you for showing me what a wonderful over you and my daughter are, I am going to lick you until you can’t come anymore,” Janet stated.
Sam chuckled just as Janet’s tongue slid between her pussy lips, “Sounds good to me, Doc. Then I’ll do the same to both of you…” She couldn’t say anymore for several glorious minutes.
The three women made love until the sun peaked over the horizon. Then the loving trio curled up together and slept, completely and totally spent.
Until the next night.
I stood up, pulling my coat out of the closet and shrugging it on. I’d had enough. It was time to make like Casper and disappear. I just wished I could disappear permanently. I slipped my boots on. They were the suede ones I’d worn on my first date with Dale. I didn’t have any other boots—and these still had a hole in the bottom. My father said we didn’t have enough money for new ones. I’d noticed he hadn’t cut back on his cigarettes, but I had to go around with a hole in my boot in the middle of January.
“He doesn’t have a better driver than me!” he was saying. “He’ll be crawling back to me, begging me to take his job offer, and I’ll just tell him to go screw himself!”
I stood, trembling, in the doorway, watching them. I could only see the top of my father’s head above the chair back. My mother was on the couch, her legs curled under her. Her face was streaked with mascara. A cigarette trembled in her fingers.
“I swear, I’ll sue him. I’ll take him for everything he owns!”
I came to stand beside his chair, my stomach churning, hands clenched into tight fists, as much to keep them from trembling as anything else. My mother was looking at me with wide, dark eyes, and I suddenly saw myself in those eyes and it tightened my chest. She looked old, haggard, and I felt so much pity for her. And hate for him. He made her this way, I thought. She could have been… alive.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded, glancing up at me. “Off to screw your little boyfriend?”
“I’ll be back later,” I said in a low voice.
“Oh, I don’t think you’re going anywhere.”
His words stopped my progress toward the door. I turned back as he lit a cigarette, watching me. He shook the match out and the motion recalled the memory of him hitting me and I flinched. I’d had bruises for three weeks. A sick rage heated my chest, spreading thickly.
“Yes, I am,” I said quietly. I was calm now, amazingly calm. It was as if everything in my body had gone numb. I didn’t care that I might be signing my own death warrant. I hated him—hated him.
“What?” His my-ears-must-be-deceiving-me tone was almost comical. So was the expression his face. It looked as if someone had walked in on him while he was going to the bathroom. It was good to see that expression on his face for once. It felt really good.
“I said I’m going, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
“You’re wrong there,” he said gruffly. “Or have you suddenly forgotten that I’m your father? I’m the one who make the money, I’m the one who says what goes around here.”
“No.” My trembling had begin again and a cold sweat was running between my breasts toward my navel under the t-shirt I was wearing. But the words didn’t stop. It wasn’t that I couldn’t stop the words, it was the words themselves. They wouldn’t stop.
“You don’t make the money around here anymore, do you?” I asked. “And you can’t tell me what to do. I hate you, and if there was any justice in this world, you wouldn’t be my father!”
It was out into the open and I thought I might faint. Instead, I turned and left. The shock must have had even him for the next thirty seconds or so, because I was halfway across the parking lot when he appeared at the building door, screaming my name. I kept walking, and he didn’t follow me.
Dale answered the door wearing Snoopy pajama bottoms, his hair tousled, his eyes half-closed. He liked to sleep late on Saturdays.
“Sara?” He was sleepy, yawning, and I stepped inside. He shut the door behind me. “Are you okay?” What happened?”
I opened my mouth to tell him, to explain what I’d just done, unable to really comprehend the magnitude of it myself. The words had ebbed away.
“Hey, are you okay?” His simple concern, so genuine, started the sobs, and he pulled me close with startled concern, trying desperately to comfort me. I clutched him, my flushed cheek resting against his bare shoulder.
I told him, my voice hitching and low.
He held me. It was almost enough.
——————————
“*Tombstone Blues by Bob Dylan
**Sunglasses at Night by Corey Hart
***What Does it Take to Be a Man by Boston
****I’d Die For You by BonJovi”
——————————
*>^,,^
He was all the way to the door before I bolted after him, grabbing his hand. He stopped, looking down at our hands and then at me.
“I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not like that. At least, it’s not anymore,” I told him. He let me lead him back to the bed. He was waiting and let me struggle. “Look, I know this must seem very, very weird to you. This thing I have for Stephen King, I mean.”
He decided to help me out. “Listen, I’m a musician. I want to be a rock star some day. You know, the kind that gets women screaming at them, ripping off their clothes. That’s being star-struck. Like Andi is with Rick Springfield. But this seems to be more like an obsession than being starstruck. This painting says it all, Sara.”
“I know,” I said softly. “And maybe I even know that I’m obsessed. Okay, I am. But that doesn’t change how I feel. Knowing that, I mean. I know it must seem odd to you, but you need to know this before we start… going out. Because I can’t see my future without him. So, if you want to leave, you can leave. I won’t stop you this time.”
Dale sat there, silent. It began to be uncomfortable, but I waited. Finally, he looked at me. He raised my hand to his cheek, rubbing it gently across his skin. He had a five o-clock shadow.
“I’ve never felt so strongly, so quickly about anyone before in my life as I feel about you,” he said. I squirmed a little, averting my eyes. He turned my head back to him. “Do you feel it?”
I opened my mouth to deny it and found that I couldn’t. He was right. I had thought the same thing. “It scares me.”
“Me, too. You could hurt me, right now, more than I’ve ever been hurt…and I’ve only know you for a week. If I stay with you, knowing that you have built your life around some guy who doesn’t even know you exist… do you know how vulnerable that would make me?”
“I don’t want to hurt you. And I have a feeling I will.” I could feel tears building in the back of my throat and I willed them to stop.
“Do you want me to leave?” he whispered.
“Do you want to go?” There we were. An impasse.
Finally, he asked, “Do you want me to stay?”
His face was inches from mine, his eyes glinting. I touched his lower lip, his cheek, the nape of his neck. His dark hair was silky. I pulled him toward me, and he shifted, resting his head on my shoulder, his forehead against my neck.
“Stay,” I whispered.
I could feel him let out his pent-up breath and his arms went around me, strong. I could hardly breathe, but I didn’t care. He was burying his face in my hair and I breathed him in, too, his aftershave, his scent, a smell that was completely and utterly Dale.
“I really like you, Sara…” His breath was warm against my ear, sending shivers through me. I couldn’t respond, there just weren’t words, so I kissed him, cupping his face in my hands and pressing my lips fully to his.
He groaned a little, shifting his weight toward me, and then onto me, both of us rocking together on my little bed. His mouth slanted across mine, drawing me into him somehow, and I was completely lost in the sensation. I gasped when his tongue touched mine, teasing, probing, and exploring at turns.
Then his mouth moved down my neck, his hands pushing at my sweater, seeking the skin of my belly, rubbing there. Suddenly, he sneezed, and I jumped. He looked at me and we both laughed.
“Sorry,” he grinned. “It’s your sweater… angora… I’m allergic…”
“Oh!” I sat, pulling it quickly off and tossing it aside. “Better?”
His eyes fell onto my black bra, moving over the tops of my breasts that were pressing upwards like an invitation.
“Oh yeah,” he nodded, licking his lips. “In so many ways.”
Giggling, I reached for him, and we were rolling again. This time, it was me pushing his shirt up, seeking skin. I wanted to feel him against me. He didn’t object, tossing his shirt over to join mine as we kissed and groped each other in the dimness.
His lips made their way over the tops of my breasts, feathering kisses there, making me wiggle and squirm beneath him. He fumbled with the hook on my bra, and I let him, my hands moving over the smooth skin of his back, tugging at the waistband of his jeans, trying to pull him in tighter.
The steady throb between my legs increased the moment he freed my breasts, his mouth covering one, his hand cupping the other. His breath was coming fast and hard, and his hips moved with mine. I could feel something hard against my thigh and knowing what it was made me weak with lust.
“Oh god,” I whispered as he licked at my nipples. They hardened for him immediately and the way he sucked them made me grind my hips against his, moaning softly and grabbing his hair in my hands.
My skirt was riding up to my waist, and I wrapped my thighs around him, squeezing, hearing him groan as I wiggled myself into position, feeling his hardness pressing fully between my legs now through the denim of his jeans.
“Sara,” he murmured, his mouth wet against my breasts. He touched my hand, pressing it down between us, over the bulge in his jeans. I gasped, my eyes wide, but I rubbed him there and he groaned, moving against me, encouraging me. “Oh god, that’s good… like that… yeah…”
His breath was coming hot and fast against my face as he kissed me again, his hand moving up under my skirt, his palm pressing my thigh to one side. I opened for him, his hand exploring upwards, rubbing over the aching mound between my legs, making me moan into his mouth. Encouraged, he pressed his palm there, rocking it.
“Ohhhh,” I moaned softly when his fingers began to edge their way under the elastic of my panties, feeling past the soft triangle of hair there, parting it. I was afraid he would recoil, feeling how wet I was, but instead he groaned to find me so moist, rubbing his fingers through the soft folds of flesh.
“Sara, please,” he whispered, reaching down and unzipping his jeans, leading my hand. “Touch it.”
I did, as he slid his jeans down his hips and his cock sprang free in my hand. Grasping it, I tugged gently, moving the loose skin along the shaft up over the thick head. He gave a sigh of pleasure, kissing me again, his tongue pressing deep into my mouth this time. His fingers had found me, not entering me, but rubbing my clit instead, round and round in a perfect rhythm.
“Oh that’s good,” I whispered, pulling on his cock, pressing it between us and stroking it against my bare belly. He was thrusting into my hand, his eyes half-closed, his mouth hovering over mine.
“Faster,” he pleaded, moving his hips against my jerking hand, and I squeezed and tugged at him, feeling something beginning to seep from the head and lubricate the shaft. “Ohhh Sara, baby, please don’t stop…”
“You either,” I gasped, spreading my thighs for his fingers, rubbing that sweet, hooded bud of flesh again and again. “Please, oh please…”
He stiffened suddenly, groaning and thrusting hard into my hand, and I could feel hot jets of his cum streaking across my belly. He shuddered with it, his mouth capturing mine, his fingers still making fast circles over my clit.
“Oh god,” I moaned, feeling his cock still pulsing in my hand. “I’m… gonna…”
“Cum for me,” he whispered in my ear, working my clit faster and faster. “Come on, Sara…”
“Yessssss!” I cried, my hips bucking as my orgasm overtook me, the delicious waves rocking my body against his again and again. His whole hand covered my mound, cupping my wetness and holding it there, his tongue probing between my lips. It seemed to go on forever, and he held me close, whispering my name.
We stayed like that a long time, not talking, just hanging onto each other. I couldn’t have foreseen anything like this, I reasoned, kissing his shoulder and snuggling closer. Dale sighed softly, and I held onto him, wondering if things would ever be the same for me again.
*
>^,,^
God, I hated this.
Inside the building it was a little warmer. Just down that short flight of steps and beyond that plain white door lay a worse monster than anything Stephen King could ever have dreamed up: my father. The yelling got louder. I hated coming here every day, this dingy building, with its rust-colored carpet and peeling walls. I remembered a time when there was a house to come home to, before my father had lost his longest-running job. Then there was a succession of lost jobs and this place.
To descend these stairs and go inside would just put me in the middle—again. The middle was a place I had been in all my life and I was just beginning to realize that there might be something different out there for me.
I wondered what it must be like for Naomi to come home every day. Stephen King’s only daughter, Naomi. I spun the fantasy out in my head:
“She would come home from school, driving her 1990 Firebird, red with black interior, grab herself a snack from the kitchen, talk to her mom for a minute, and then head to her room. On her way, she would peek in and say “hi” to her dad, (if his sign, “Do Not Disturb, Crazy Man At Work” wasn’t out, that is.) He would be in his office sitting at his typewriter and working on his latest novel. She would rap with him for a minute, munching on her apple, about her day, about his book, about life in general, give him a peck on the cheek and say, “Oh, Dad!” when he mentioned how old she was beginning to look and how he was going to have to invest in a shotgun and a porch swing, soon.”
I sat down on the stairs, unable to think anymore through the bitterness, or see through my tears. His voice reverberated in my head.
“Can’t you do anything right? You never listen to me, do you? Huh? Huh? I can’t “hear” you!”
My hands pressed against my ears and I hung my head between my knees, feeling weak. You would think I could get used to this after all these years, but it always made my stomach turn and my ears ring.
“What was that? I don’t care what you think! You are so stupid, woman! You can never do anything I ask you to do!” He was going on, and on, and he would, berating her as best he could, making himself the superior person, the superior sex. Always. I could hear my mother’s voice, a little voice, a mouse voice, a scared little girl voice.
“Honey, you never asked me to do that. I would have, if you’d told me, but you never did.” Brave today, I thought, shaking my head. You’re not going to get away with it, you know.
“Don’t tell me what I told you! You think you know my mind better than I do, woman? Do you? Huh?”
“No, but I–”
CRACK
Sudden, like a gunshot, or a whip.
And my mother’s tears, always her tears.
And mine. I cried for her weakness, and for my own, wondering if there were people out there who lived normal lives, or if everyone hid things like this behind closed doors, behind scarves and sunglasses.
I pressed my hands against my ears, blocking out what I could, pressing hard, harder, hardest, not caring if my hands met in the middle of the mush of my brain, if it would only make the voices stop.
*****
I opened the door slowly, bracing myself. This was the worst part. If I could just make it to my room, I’d be safe.
“Well, where have you been, young lady?” he asked, not looking away from the TV. “You can’t just waltz in here anytime you want to.”
I looked at him, sitting in “his” chair, remote control in hand, a cigarette in the other. He was looking at me now, but he wasn’t “glaring” and that was good. That meant he wasn’t going to keep me. This was just a show of power.
“I’m sorry, I was at Andi’s,” I said softly, the door snicking shut behind me. This was a lie—I’d simply waited out on the stairs until the yelling—and the crying—had stopped.
“Well, you can forget about dinner,” he said.
“Did I miss it?” I asked. I hadn’t been out on the stairs that long!
“No, but you can forget about eating it,” he said, flipping the channel and puffing on his cigarette. “You were late.” He turned back to the television set. It was my dismissal. Thank God.
“Yes sir,” I mumbled anyway, just in case he thought about it later and decided I hadn’t been humble enough to suit him. I made my way past his chair, glancing into their room to see my mother laying on the bed with an ice pack on her eye. She seemed to be asleep.
I opened my door at the end of the hall and sighed when I shut it behind me. This was my haven, a shelter in the storm. I dropped my books and lay down on my bed, toeing my shoes off. I’d made it. I was safe. Well, relatively.
I lay back on the multi-colored bedspread my mother had crocheted for me and looked around my room. It felt good to relax, to let my guard down a little. This was the only place in the world that I could “be myself.” This room was me, completely and totally me, from the pictures of Stephen King on the walls, to the Stephen King books on the shelves.
I looked around and wondered how long it would be before I could get out of here forever. My ticket out was sitting on an easel in front of the window. Like everything else in my room, it was Stephen King. This was special, though. This was the painting that would get me out of here—I hoped. I had taken my favorite picture of Stephen from “People” magazine and made a portrait of it.
The original picture was one of Steve and his daughter, Naomi, in a warm embrace, her cheek resting against his turquoise sweater. They were smiling, happy, and it looked as if the photographer had snapped the picture a moment too late, because instead of looking at the camera, they were half-looking at each other, their eyes locked, and the look in their eyes was of something secretly hilarious, some inside joke and the love there made me ache all over. The warmth between them was almost tangible, she looking up and him, he looking down at her, with all the love in the world caught in that one single look.
I had painted Steve exactly as he was, but instead of Naomi, I had done a self-portrait as well, putting myself in her place. The painting was almost finished. I just had a little work to do. I contemplated getting out my paints and brushes, since I was going to be in here all night, without any supper.
Instead, I grabbed one of the brochures sitting on my night stand. The edges were ragged, I’d flipped through it so many times. There was a Bulldog on the front, near the words “University of Maine at Orono.” Stephen King’s alma mater. Inside, though… I opened the slick, folded sheet of paper, staring at the words: “Maine Difference Creative Competition.” Open to writers, painters, photographers—artists of all creeds.
I double-checked the prize, as I had a hundred times: all-expenses paid scholarship to the University of Maine to the top winner in each category, and an invitation to an open house to see the campus and accept their award. I folded the brochure back up, carefully tucking it fully back under my alarm clock.
That was my golden ticket. King still lived only five minutes away form Orono, in Bangor. I had my dreams of meeting him, my little fantasies. Maybe I’d run into his son, Joe… who says we couldn’t fall in love and get married? Or babysitting his youngest son, Owen. Or meeting Naomi at the University of Maine. She had I were the exact same age. Hey, it could happen!
I knew that all of my little scenarios were unlikely, but they were absolutely impossible if I stayed in Michigan and never set foot in Maine. So, I was going. I would win the contest and go to Maine. I had to. If nothing else, it will get me out of here, I thought.
I looked at my painting and then at the original photograph that I had tacked to the wall. Naomi King. I was so incredibly jealous of her. Why should she have such a wonderful father, when I was stuck with mine? There was never a day that passed when I didn’t wish it was me, in his arms with all of that love, for real, and not just in my painting. I knew I was strange. All the rest of the girls my age had crushes on rock stars or actors. Not me.
I sighed, shaking my head to clear the reverie. Forget it, I thought. Let’s just get to work. I put on my painting smock and grabbed my palette and a clean brush. If I finished it tonight and let it dry, I could send it out tomorrow. The thought spurred me on, and I opened my paints, beginning to mix a skin tone. I had just gotten the right color when the phone rang.
It was the first time I had thought of Dale since I had left him, and I grabbed the phone on the first ring, hoping that my father wouldn’t pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Sara, hi, where in the heck were you after school? I had to take the bus home!”
“Oh, jeez, Andi, I completely forgot! I got in trouble and I had to stay after,” I said, putting down my brush and palette and sitting on the bed.
“You got in trouble? What for?”
“It’s a long story,” I said, looking longingly at my painting and the paint drying on the palette.
“So?”
I sighed and told her what had happened.
“And you know the weirdest part?” I asked. “Dale’s from Maine!”
“You are too hung up on Stephen King,” Andi said. “You meet this incredible guy and all you can say about him is that he’s from Maine!”
“Hey, I don’t bug you about Rick Springfield,” I said.
“Speaking of which, tickets go on sale this Saturday!” Andi said. “Can you come with me to get them?”
“I’m not standing in line over night again,” I told her. “No way!’
“No, we’ll only have to leave at maybe…six a.m.”
“Eight is my limit, bud. I will only go so far,” I said.
“Oh, all right,” she grumbled. “So I get to meet this Dale guy tomorrow?” she asked.
“Sure, if you’re riding to school with me.”
“Oh, no! Tomorrow I’ve got to be to school early because of marching band. My brother’s taking me. Hey, invite him to the lunch table! Then we can all meet him,” Andi said.
“Oh, yeah, I want Carrie ripping him to shreds. That’s a good idea,” I said with a groan.
“Come on, you wimp. Just do it,” she said.
“Fine. Listen, can I let you go? My paint is drying fast, here.”
“Sure. Can I see it before you send it?”
“Yeah—if you let me finish it!”
“Okay, okay. I’ll see you “and” your man at lunch tomorrow!”
“He’s not my–” I started to protest, but she had already hung up.
I picked up my brush and palette, and the phone rang again. I rolled my eyes and reached for it, hoping that I’d caught it soon enough.
“Hello?” My father’s voice echoed mine, and I thought it couldn’t get worse until Dale said, “Hi, Sara? I mean, is Sara home?”
“I got it,” I said.
“Okay,” my father said, but he still didn’t hang up the phone.
“Hi, Sara, how’s it going?” Dale asked.
“Okay,” I said shortly, waiting for my father to hang up. I hated when he did this.
“So…I told you I’d call.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, hating being so short with him, but not wanting to give anything away to my father.
“Don’t be too long,” my father said gruffly and then the line was clear again.
“Was that your dad?” Dale asked.
“Yeah. Don’t ask. So, what’s up?”
“Not much. I was just sitting here playing my guitar and thinking about you. What are you doing?”
“Painting,” I told him honestly, looking longingly at my canvas.
“Cool. Are you a real artist?”
“I try to be. Are you a real musician?”
“I try to be. Me and the band are going to be entering The Battle of the Bands. They’re doing it over at the Icehouse, you know, the teen night club. They’re showing the Finals on MTV, and the winner gets a record contract. Not that I believe we’ll even make it to the semi-finals let alone the Finals,” he said. I could hear him strumming his guitar.
“You don’t have much confidence in yourself,” I said.
“Oh, yeah, I do. But the problem is that the band hasn’t been together that long. The band I had at home, we were together for three years. I’m sure we could have made it to the Finals. But this band… I just don’t know.”
“I’d like to hear you play,” I told him, laying back on my bed and forgetting about my painting. “Do you sing?”
“Want to hear me?”
“Now? Over the phone?”
“Sure. Let’s see, what should I play? This is what I was playing before I called you.”
I could hear him strumming something that sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.
“”Hey, where do we go
Days when the rains came
Down in the hollow
Playing a new game…”*”
I recognized the song now, and I sat in awe, unable to believe how incredible his voice was. And this was just with an acoustic guitar accompaniment and over the phone. With a band behind him, live, he would be… like a rock star! I smiled as he sang:
“”Laughing and a running hey, hey
Skipping and a jumping
In the misty morning fog
Our hearts were thumping
And you, my brown-eyed girl…”*”
The song ended and there was a brief silence.
“Wow,” I said softly.
“That song reminded me of you,” he told me, using the same soft tone. “You’ve got pretty brown eyes.”
“Thanks,” I said, rolling onto my side and cradling the phone.
“You have a terrific voice.”
“Thanks. I love to play to an appreciative audience. Andi would love this one,” Dale said, strumming the beginning of “Jessie’s Girl.” It sounded ridiculous on an acoustic.
“You need an electric guitar,” I told him.
“Got one—just don’t have an amp for it right now. I use Terry’s old one when we practice and it sounds awful. I sold the amp last year to buy a car and had to sell the car when we moved here. Now I need them both. So, what are your plans this evening?”
“Not a thing,” I said, looking at my painting.
“Good, because I want to talk to you for a long time.”
And we did.
——————————–
*Brown Eyed Girl by Van Morrison
——————————–
*
>^,,^
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