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From: "Johnny D." <mr_johnny@bigfoot.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} STORY: Redemption? by Johnny D. (no sex)
Date: Mon, 22 May 2000 05:10:11 -0400
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I wrote this story while I was feeling rather depressed, and so it contains
a fair amount of wallowing in self-pity. Evenso, I'm quite chuffed with
the way it's turned out; I think it's one of the best things I've written
in the last eighteen months. (Which is, I guess, not saying very much.)
Even if there isn't any actual sex in it.
Ah well. Comments are very welcome; send them to me at
mr_johnny@bigfoot.com now matter how insulting they are. :) My other
works can be found at my spiffy website, the URL of which is:
http://member.newsguy.com/files/Authors/j/wwwondfic/jd/
Remember, no kiddies beyond this point. So if you're under 18, stop
reading NOW and go to www.disney.com instead!
***
COPYRIGHT NOTICE: This story remains at all times the exclusive copyright
of the author known as Johnny D. You, the reader, are hereby granted
permission to keep a private copy of this story, and to make paper copies
for your own personal use only; however, my authorship and this warning
must NOT be removed from the manuscript. You may show this story to other
people individually. You may NOT distribute the story publicly without
my permission. This includes (but is not limited to): placing the story
on a web site, FTP site, mailserver; posting it to a mailing list or
newsgroup; putting it on a CD-ROM. Do any of these without my say so and
I will be very angry.
In other words, if you want to use this story for anything, you have to
ask me first.
***
Redemption?
===========
by Johnny D.
Once upon a time there lived a man upon whom the Gods of Fortune smiled. Where
he walked the sun always shone; where he sat a cold wind never blew. When he
played poker he always drew a full house. His friends all loved him, his
family adored him, and his enemies always tripped over their own big feet.
He never went hungry, he never had to struggle. Whatever he wanted would
always fall into his hands. He was the luckiest man alive.
And yet sadness ate at the corners of the man's soul. For the man was alone,
for those he loved didn't know him truly, those who were his friends knew only
a mask. Within the man everyone saw and loved there lived another, a man
nobody knew, his life a tapestry of secrets and things he would let others
know. Sometimes at night he would lay awake, sweating with fear that somebody
would find out, discover the real him. Terrified that somebody would know him.
And so, as the months turned into years and the seasons rolled by, this man who
had so much walked the path of life alone. And it was cold, being alone, cold
even though the warm love of his family surrounded him, chilling to the bone
despite the platonic embrace of friends. Slowly but surely those he loved were
taken from him; seduced by death's warm embrace or stolen by lovers, children,
jobs, ambitions, desires, children, lovers. Self-pity welled up within the
man, seeking release but finding the doors of his soul locked tight against
intruders. Suicide beckoned but the man threw himself away, desperately
seeking life yet not knowing how to live. Fortune still smiled on him and
gold flowed his way, yet now the man truly was alone, for all had left
him - none meaning to, but that didn't matter. They were gone and how to
replace them the man knew not.
The man took up his pen and wrote, filling lines then pages then books with
his flowing scrawl, words tumbling from his soul as concepts sought release
after a lifetime of repression. The man looked at his writing and saw that
it was good; more than good. He had found a talent which he had never dreamed
he possessed, and he almost wept with joy. But when the emotion subsided, he
looked again at his words, and saw in there himself, the bitterness and the
loneliness and the secrets, and he knew that he could never let another see
his story, because if they read it they would know his soul. And so he hid
the reams of paper in a small box under his bed, taping it shut as much as he
dared, and slept that night in fear that one day someone might find his writing.
One day in a crowded cafe he took up his pencil and started to draw; initially
sketching the bare back of a girl seated at another table but then branching out
as clouds of imagination floated before his mind's eye; bigger strokes of the
pencil, thicker, harder. The muscles in his hand strained and tensed as it
guided the graphite over his page. And then it was done, and the man found
to his amazement that it was good. Joy welled up inside him; not only could
he write, but he could draw! He was an artist! This work would be the first
of many, this work would be his pride, this work had eyes that gazed out at him,
haunted eyes sketched with pencil and stained with coffee, faces tense and
strained, demonic eyes gazing from them, eyes that knew. They knew. The faces
he had drawn, they knew. The sketch knew. It shouted it from every curve,
every corner, every line, every feature he had shaded with little back-and-forth
strokes. It was himself again, captured in the picture. If anyone saw this,
they would see right away the emotions that had spawned it, see the secrets
that had sneaked forth from his soul to find image on his pad. Tearing the
picture from the pad as quickly as he dared without attracting attention, he
hurried home to hide it safe.
Time sneaks up upon us all and before long the man realised that he was forty,
forty-five, fifty. There were more years behind than there were ahead, and
a creak in his joints to remind him lest he ever forgot. New generations had
grown up around him, young smiling faces on the street-corners; the world had
changed and yet still he was alone.
And the voices inside him said again "End it, end it. Why go on? What's the
point? What are you living for?"
Shut up, shut up. Out, damned spot.
Fifty-five, sixty...
"Why go on?"
Because.
"What's the point?"
To live.
"What are you living for?"
He didn't know. And yet with life he was too enamoured to consider a divorce.
Or too scared of what might lie beyond. Or of what might not. There were
grey hairs on his head and in the years loneliness had become just a burden
he carried. Fortune still smiled upon him, and gold still flowed his way, and
yet it had never been enough. He looked at his bank statement and saw that he
could buy almost anything he wanted, yet what he wanted he didn't know.
The couple across the street took pity on him one New Year's Eve, inviting him
over to sing with them Auld Lang Syne. Deep down he didn't want to go, deep
down he resented being asked, resented the demand upon his time, although he
had no idea what he would have done instead. Probably an early night, like
every night since he couldn't remember when. But politeness and perhaps a
sense that he was truly a boring old fart compelled him to accept their
invitation, and to spend two hours the week beforehand in a public library
researching the lyrics.
At ten he knocked upon the door, dressed in his best jacket and tie. Ken, the
man's name was; Mary, his wife. "Come in, David!" beamed Ken, for Ken was the
kind of man who did everything beaming. "Come in and have a glass of bubbly."
Why do they call wine "bubbly", the man wondered, when it isn't bubbly at all?
He wasn't normally much of a drinker (although through his miseries he had been
tempted), but tonight he allowed himself to pour the thick red wine down his
throat. The false fire roared in the grate as Ken and Mary chatted and
chattered over the chatting and chattering morons on the television. The man
chatted a little back, but small-talk had never really been his forte and
anyway he didn't have much to talk about. But an hour passed and suddenly
the man found himself having to bite back his own words, force them back before
they came out. Shut up you idiot, he told himself. These good people don't
want to hear any more stories about your life. They don't care about the Maths
exam you took when you were fifteen, or about your car breaking down in the
middle of nowhere ten years ago. Get a grip.
Time flowed with the wine and then the year was gone. "Happy New Year!" slurred
Ken, grabbing the man's hand and pumping it vigorously, before dragging he and
Mary to their feet and leading them in their best rendition of Auld Lang Syne.
"Should auld acquaintance... forgot... sake... auld... auld... auld!" they
sang, dancing in a circle before collapsing into the plush, soft armchairs.
Snuggling his body into the cushions, the man felt warmer than he'd felt in
years. Good to be with people, he thought, good to be in company, was a fool
but it's good to be with people and thes're nice people and...
And then he looked left.
Mary had dropped onto the sofa beside Ken and was now snuggling closer and
closer to him, moulding her body against his side, one leg thrust over his as
she ground her crotch into his hips while licking around the underside of his
ear and...
"Well, I think, uh, I better be going." said the man, almost spilling his wine
as he rushed for the door and then his home. He slammed his door behind him and
stood shivering in his darkened hallway. He shouldn't have gone, he should've
realised he wasn't cut out for it. He opened his flies and pulled out his
thick engorged cock. Sixty years old and still a virgin; one of his smallest
secrets, such a little thing it hardly mattered. But God, it hurt. He started
to caress his hardness with his rough hands and was soon pumping his seed into
his clenched fist.
Spring came and with it the rain. For three days it rained, each day's downpour
heavier than the last; huddled beneath his umbrella the man could only bless his
luck that he didn't have a long walk to work. Walking home, he peered through
the rain at a brightly-coloured shape huddled beneath the drainpipe of his
neighbour's home. Whatever was it? It looked like... a girl?
"Hello Mister Houston," called the girl. "My Mom and Dad have gone out for the
day and I forgot my key!"
The man squinted. It was Claudia; little Claudia, the child of his neighbours.
Not so little now, of course; she was mid or late teens. How the years flew.
A bedraggled, skinny creature, her dark hair plastered to her skull by the
rainfall, which had drenched her beyond the ability of her thin anorak to
protect.
Well what could he do?
Inside his house, the man hung Claudia's anorak up to dry while the young girl
stretched herself out in front of his fire. The rain had penetrated her coat,
soaking her blouse which now clung to her skin like perspiration, displaying
the curve of her bosom and her back, displaying to the world through its
wet translucence her bra. A plain white bra, with a pretty embroidery around
the edges. The man hung back behind his kitchen door for a moment, watching
as the girl stood on tip-toes and wiggled her shapely little bottom at the
fire.
"Claudia," called the man, and his voice was cracking. "Why don't you go
upstairs to my room and get out of those, those wet clothes, before you catch
a chill? You can wear one of my shirts out of my wardrobe and there's a robe
and maybe some pants in there... well, take whatever you need."
"Thanks Mr Houston!"
Wait ten, nine, eight... five, four, three, two, one...
His soft footfalls seemed to thwump deafeningly as he crept up his stairs. He
could hear the girl in his room, humming one of those pop jingles to herself.
Annoying tune, no melody. He wasn't going to be up here long, he told
himself... just one minute, just one quick glance to check that she wasn't
going through his private files. That was it, check she wasn't going through
his private files. He hovered beyond the closed door while he tried to pluck
up the courage, before putting putting his eye to the crack and taking a peek...
She was naked, his heart missed a beat.
The girl was naked, her sodden clothes laid neatly across his bed and looking
life a deflated person in their own right, as part of his mind would later
remark. Much later. Because the girl was naked, nude, starkers, wearing not
a stitch of clothing as she opened his wardrobe and stared into it.
She stared at the wardrobe, he stared at her.
Her skin was slightly red from its soaking, although she had found a towel from
somewhere and dried herself as best she could. Her modest breasts hung pertly
from her chest, a droplet of water hanging by sheer surface tension from one
erect nipple sparkled in the light from the bedside lamp. A smile played on
those so-innocent lips. She bent over to rummage in a pile of clothes,
revealing her soft furry treasure to his virgin eyes. He felt his member
stirring in his pants, legions of sperm stirring in his balls. Unbidden, his
hand thrust into his pocket and began to stroke the hardening shaft...
NO! Couldn't stay here thinking lecherous thoughts, she'd catch him, she'd
see him, down the stairs, quickly, move legs, move, move, MOVE!
But God, that girl had a body like an angel. What he wouldn't give to run his
hands all over that gloriously firm ass, bend her over his dresser and give her-
MOVE MOVE MOVE!
Downstairs, he poured himself a drink and gulped it down. Then poured himself
another.
Finally, she came down the stairs and stood in the doorway, looking like
a beautiful silhouetted demon; temptation brought to life. She was wearing
one of his old shirts, brown and paint-stained, with a pair of his oversized
boxers engulfing her legs, and a black belt buckled tightly around her waist to
hold them up. "Here, have a drink to warm you up," he said, offering her a
glass of wine. She took it.
He wondered if she was wearing her panties under those boxers.
"Did you find everything you needed?"
"Yes thanks, Mr Houston, I'm nice and dry now."
Not wet anywhere?
"Is the wine okay?"
"Yes thanks!" She giggled. "I've never really drunk wine before."
"I'm not much of a drinker myself, but it seemed somehow appropriate." Or
something like that. He raised his glass. "To... to the future!"
"To the future!"
Nice wine; nice. Making him less tense; more relaxed and comfortable and
less guilty and tense and-
"To the summer!"
"Wassat, Claudia? Sorry, I was watching the rain."
"The summer, Mr Houston; I can't wait for the summer, I can't wait to get my
bikini on and go to the beach. Let's drink to the summer."
I can't wait either. "Yes, let's. To the summer!"
They both gulped down another mouthful of wine. The man leaned over to refill
Claudia's glass, trying to catch a glimpse down her shirt (his shirt) and
hating himself for it. He hoped she hadn't noticed; he hadn't been able to
see anything anyway. He was sure she was naked underneath it though; he could
imagine her little nipples rubbing against the rough fabric, being stimulated
by it, blood flowing to them as...
His mind was wandering again.
"So tell me Claudia, do you have a boyfriend?"
"Not at the minute, Mr Houston; boys are so clumsy and rough and self-centered."
"You don't like boys then?" An image of Claudia eating out one of her
schoolfriends jumped unbidden into his mind.
"Oh, boys're fun, I really like them, but you just have to not take it too
seriously, y'know?"
"Oh, I know. I hear about that kind of thing on the TV every day."
Claudia giggled and blushed.
More wine flowed.
"Sh'o, Claudia," smiled the man. "Are you shure you're comfy in that old rough
shirt?"
The girl giggled. She was doing that a lot. "Yes thank you, Mr Houston, I'm
okay."
"If you weren't then you would say, wouldn't you? We could always take it off
and find you something else to wear. I wouldn't like to think of you sitting
here and not being all comfy-cosy."
More giggles.
More wine.
"I loved your bedroom, Mr 'Ouston, sir. I liked the way the carpet and the
curtains go together, like they do, and I thought- I thought the wallpaper
was absolutely gorgeous! And the bed - oooh! I wish I slept in a bed as big
and as soft as yours!"
The man smiled. "Let's go upstairs and have another look at it all, and I'll
tell you how I chose it."
Claudia frowned.
The man leaned forward, feeling his now rock-hard erection straining
desperately for release from the confines of his pants. He'd blown it, this
wasn't gonna work, but another idea was now forming in his mind.
Claudia opened her mouth-
And the years turned by and grey hair turned to no hair and the river of life
turned into the stream and then a brook. The Gods of Fortune continued to
smile upon the man, and his secrets remained secrets and nobody ever found
out. As sadness sparkled in the streets around his house, the man remained
untouched by it all as he aged into his ninetieth year.
And then he died.
No-one came to his funeral.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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