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From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} First Ever Repost (7): Rachel's Remorse (MF) ~ by DrSpin
Date: Wed,  2 Jan 2002 13:10:03 -0500
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Rachel's Remorse (MF)
by DrSpin (aka Neil Anthony)
(first ever repost - originally posted January 2000) 

---------------------------------------------------------
* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
drspin@newsguy.com or neil@ruthiesclub.com

* DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: 
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is 
to it. Any reader is offended should not have been here 
in the first place.
---------------------------------------------------------

"So there you are," she said. I turned my head and saw it 
was Rachel, wife of a colleague, standing in the doorway of 
my office. A close colleague. My partner, my rival, joint 
holder of the current golden boy title. With me, of course. 

I headed the inter-government relations division and he the 
trade division. We were the fast guns in a high profile 
embassy team under a slow hand but impeccably distinguished 
ambassador. Tonight's event was barely routine. Just 
another function, this one. Trade-based; which meant he was 
more officially on duty than I, which explained why I was 
able to slip away to catch a late night television 
interview which, according to my informant, would 
precipitate a new political crisis in the scandal-racked 
administration of this frenetic nation.

"Rachel," I said, suppressing my irritation at being 
interrupted mid-interview. I clicked the record button as a 
precaution, while trying to keep half an eye and half an 
ear on the proceedings. "Can I help you?" Training, you 
see.

She sauntered over to me. The right description. She was 
definitely sauntering and, though I only really knew her 
socially, I had an uneasy feeling she did not normally 
saunter. She parked her posterior against my desk and, with 
a little leverage, sat on it. She leaned her weight on a 
straight arm and peered directly at me. Uh oh. She was 
drunk. I'd never seen her drunk. No question tonight, 
though. She was plastered. "So why don't you like me," she 
said aggressively.

"Of course I like you," I lied instantly. Well, I didn't 
not like her. I suppose. I'd never thought about it.

She looked around at the television and shifted her 
position to block it. She looked back at me, a frown on her 
face. "No," she said petulantly. "You don't."

Be pleasant to drunks and try to get rid of them as soon as 
possible. It's all in the training. I smiled my easy smile. 

"Hey now," I said. "Rachel, we only meet occasionally at 
events and functions like tonight. But as much as I do know 
you, I like you just fine."

She looked at me with suspicion written in her gaze. "And 
if you didn't like me, that's exactly what you'd say 
anyway," she said. Okay, she wasn't stupid. Drunk, 
certainly. Stupid, no. She cocked her head. "For example," 
she said, "do you think I'm attractive?"

"Of course."

"Not enough words. You have to say more."

"Rachel, it is blindingly obvious that you are an 
attractive woman. You must know that."

"But do you, I mean you personally, find me attractive?"

"Of course."

She continued to study my face closely, looking for clues. 
Too forward by half, but that's what drinking does for you. 

Anyway, I wasn't lying. She looked pretty damn good and she 
always did. Medium height, short brownish hair coloured up 
a touch coppery-red by her hairdresser, a sharp face with 
angles to it and a small straight nose, a wide mouth, good 
breasts without being heavy and a slim line accentuated by 
a long black dress of some soft material. It hung off her 
clean white shoulders with little thin straps.

"You've never made a pass at me," she said with a hint of 
accusation. "Not even a tiny one."

"You're a married woman."

"And you don't make passes at married women?"

"I don't."

"What about Fay Ramsey?"

Damn. Bloody embassies. I smiled my easy smile, however. 
"She's only a little bit married," I said. Barely at all, 
actually. She and Bill don't even speak, let alone cohabit.

"Hmm." She pondered that. "Maybe I'm not so married 
myself."

I let that pass. My co-golden colleague was a polished 
womaniser and I didn't know how much she knew I knew. I 
presumed she knew it herself because, although she was 
drunk she was not stupid. And this was an embassy enclave. 
Everybody knew. I would certainly know. It was a question 
of how much I knew, and how much she thought I knew.

"I may have had a little too much tonight but I'm not 
stupid," she said. "Don't worry. I didn't come here to see 
you about that."

I smiled at her. My pleasant smile. The one that fills in 
when you don't want to say anything.

She raised an eyebrow at me. "You're thinking: So why did 
she come to see me?"

I smiled. I could do that for hours and hours. It's in the 
training.

"I'll tell you, shall I?" But it wasn't a question. She 
went straight on with it. "I came looking for you because I 
was feeling a bit sad, lonely and neglected and I was 
looking around for somebody to talk to and I saw nobody who 
fitted the bill and then I remembered you. So I came 
looking. But I forgot you don't like me."

"Rachel, I like you fine. I told you that."

"But you still won't hit on me, right?"

I spread my hands. It could be interpreted as a gesture of 
regret. "You're a married woman."

"That means I'll have to hit on you."

"Hey, Rachel, come on. There's a function going on down the 
hall. What if we were busted?"

She laughed, and there was an edge of malice to it. "I like 
this game. It's called heads I win, tails you lose."

"You'll have to explain that."

She eased herself off the desk and sauntered away to the 
television set. She switched it off. No problem, it 
continued to record. "I'll have to think about it," she 
said, her back to me. "Make me a drink. Gin and tonic." She 
anticipated my hesitation. "I can always go back to the 
party and get one and make a nuisance of myself doing it." 

I got up and opened the drinks cabinet. Gin and tonic. An 
embassy drink, if ever there was one. Mother's misery, they 
called it a hundred years ago and more. We called it a leg 
opener where I grew up. But we hopefully called most things 
leg openers in our youthful naivete. It wasn't till I grew 
up I discovered the best leg opener was a simple and polite 
request.

I mixed a gin and tonic and turned to give it to her. She 
was standing in front of the television set, facing me. 
She'd pulled the straps of the dress down her arms and her 
breasts were bare. One arm was across her stomach, holding 
the dress to her body. She had a little crooked smile on 
her mouth, brazen but embarrassed at the same time. Her 
breasts were pale-white, nipples as red as I'd seen. 
Nicely-shaped, with the upturned tilt of a teenager, which 
she wasn't.

"Now if I give you this drink," I said carefully, "you'll 
take it in your right hand and your dress will fall off."

She smiled a bit more and stretched out her hand for the 
glass. The dress fell away and slid to the floor around her 
feet. She took the drink and sipped at it. She was wearing 
pantyhose and underneath tight black high-cut pants. She 
stepped away from the puddled dress and out of her heeled 
shoes.

"Rachel, how old are you?" I asked politely.

"31," she whispered.

I nodded my head slowly and appreciatively. "You're doing 
well. Very well, in fact."

"Shall I take off the rest?"

"If I were you, I wouldn't."

"I will anyway." And she did, her breasts dangling and 
swaying as she bent forward. She straightened, a pile of 
clothes at her feet, and stood resolutely before me like a 
parade guard. She closed her eyes for a moment and almost 
lost her balance. She straightened again, setting her 
shoulders back. Square on, she faced me.

Her skin was uniformly white, paler than expected, and she 
was slim right through from head to foot, uniformly so, 
which gave her a younger and leaner look than you'd expect. 
And centred within her hips was a broad and wiry thicket of 
dusty-brown pubic hair, more than you'd expect to see on a 
woman not dark-skinned, swarthy or hairy. It was slightly 
shocking, mildly deviant, in its contrariness and the way 
in which wisps and tufts of it stuck out at untidy and 
unruly angles. Erotic, too. Too erotic.

"Say something," she said softly. There was a quaver in her 
voice. "You have to say something."

It was no time to be enigmatic. "You are very lovely," I 
said, with as much simplicity and sincerity as I could 
muster. Well, she was. No lie. I hoped it would do.

I think it did, because she had that crooked smile back on 
her face. "Well then," she said. "What now?"

Good question. "Perhaps it would be wise to shut the door," 
I said, and moved over to do it. I didn't need to click the 
lock. A door shut was a shut door in this place. I turned 
back to see her wobbling on her feet. She corrected herself 
by catching the corner of the desk with her hand and she 
looked up at me quickly, a sweep of confusion on her face.

"It's all catching up with you," I said. "It always does. 
Why don't you lie down on the couch for a moment?"

She nodded and stretched out on the black leather couch, 
against which her white skin contrasted superbly. She 
rolled on her side, away from me, her buttocks not quite as 
trim, firm and young as the rest of her. Nobody's perfect. 
Tufted ends of her wildly profuse pubic hair poked through 
between her legs. Highly erotic.

I stood and watched the naked lady on the couch. I barely 
knew her. Rachel, hitherto spotless wife of my tireless 
rival, a woman with teenager's tits, a big hairy box and a 
drink-induced will this night to be sad, mad and bad. What 
do I do about it?

I walked around the back of the couch and looked down at 
her. She was asleep. She wasn't faking because already her 
mouth was open and I don't know a female who would do that 
knowingly while on display. I looked at what I could see of 
her body for a while and then went to the closet to fetch 
the long winter coat I wouldn't be needing for a few months 
yet. I draped it over her carefully and fetched her 
clothes, which I placed beside the couch. Then I let myself 
out and went looking for her husband.

I found him at the outskirts of the function which was 
winding its way down. "Andrew," I said. "Just to tell you 
Rachel might have had one too many tonight and she's 
sleeping it off on my couch."

He looked at me with mild interest. "Oh", he said. "I was 
thinking I might go on for a bit of clubbing with these 
fine people." He waved his hand generally at a group 
standing nearby.

"I could drop her home a bit later," I offered. "When she's 
feeling more sound and reliable."

"Would you? That would be a great help."

"Sure. Do you want to go check on her?"

"I'm sure she's in good hands."

I could not restrain a broad smile. But his attention was 
already elsewhere. A tiny pretty blonde was hovering like a 
sugar fairy, waiting, and I left him to it. I returned to 
my office to check out the sleeping beauty, attention 
sharpened further by the illicit nature of it all. Andrew 
might well have taken up my invitation to check out her 
condition himself. Rachel was fast asleep. I lifted up the 
corner of the covering coat and saw how she had relaxed in 
her slumber. She had folded into the couch and her bum 
poked out over the edge. Wires of hair were now protruding 
plentifully between her legs. Very sexy. Considerably 
carnal, in fact, considering this was a lady who would not 
commonly be found in such compromising circumstances. I 
fought briefly with instant urges and controlled them. This 
would be all the sweeter for the wait and for the twists 
and turns yet to come. I laid the coat down and let her 
sleep.

There was always paper work waiting for attention. I 
switched on the desk lamp and turned off the main lights 
and set to it, happy enough to be gaining a break on the 
next day. Nearly two and a half hours passed before she 
stirred. I was watching the clock, waiting. At near 12:20 
she rolled over on the couch, and as I turned to look, sat 
bolt upright. The coat fell away and her breasts were 
showing, which she noticed immediately. She clutched the 
coat around her shoulders, covering herself, and looked at 
me blearily and, I thought, somewhat fearfully.

"Christ," she said tremulously. "What have I done?"

"You weren't that drunk," I said. "You know what you did."

She was gathering her wits and her memory. "Christ," she 
said again. "Where's Andrew?"

"Gone out partying. I said I'd take you home."

"He didn't.?"

"No."

"Christ."

She was staring at me. "You didn't.? I mean, we didn't.?"

"No."

"Not even a little?"

"No."

She looked away. "I didn't think so." A silence developed. 

"Christ," she said, breaking it with a note of urgency and 
rising to her feet and clutching the coat to her, "I think 
I'm going to be sick."

"There's the bathroom," I said, pointing.

She was in there for a while and she emerged looking worse 
than when she entered. She was wearing the coat buttoned 
strategically. She looked at me mournfully. "I have to get 
dressed," she said.

I pointed to her bundled clothing. "I recommend you take a 
shower before you do. You'll feel better for it, trust me."

She nodded, scooped up her clothes and returned to the 
mini-bathroom. When she re-emerged she was dressed, cleaned 
up and improved. "I have to go home," she said, her voice 
dull and worried.

I drove her. The trip wasn't long and she didn't say a 
word. I saw her to the door. She turned in the doorway. 

"Sorry," she said.

"It happens," I said, and left. She stood in the doorway 
and watched me go.

Three days later she rang me. "Look," she said, business-
like and rehearsed, "I can't leave it like this. I deeply 
appreciate your discretion but I have embarrassed myself, 
and unless I have a chance to explain I'll never be able to 
look you in the eye again."

"It's okay," I said.

"Not for me. You could take me to lunch today, perhaps?"

I knew Andrew was out of town for a couple of days. "Sure," 
I said, and made the arrangements.

The restaurant was small, dim, unfashionable and suitable 
for the occasion. It was a local trade place, and the other 
occupied tables were speaking the local language. Rachel 
had set herself to waste no time. "Look," she said, leaning 
forward, "about the other night. I didn't intend to do any 
of that. I admit I was feeling a bit provocative and 
mischievous but I didn't mean those things to happen. I 
can't believe what I did. I don't normally drink that 
much." She stopped and waited, her eyes anxiously roving my 
face as she searched for a response.

"I knew that," I said.

"Thanks. I thought you'd say that but I still needed to 
hear it. Can we put it from our minds?"

"Oh no," I said. "I can't do that." She cocked her head 
slightly, coping with a response she did not expect. "I can 
behave like a gentleman," I explained, "and I will be 
totally discreet. But be fair. I can't put it from my mind 
because I have clear and explicit images of you that won't 
go away."

Flush points appeared on her cheekbones. "I've seen the 
bodies of many women," I went on. "But I like your body 
best."

She seemed to be struggling, not knowing what to say. "I 
can see you don't know what to say," I said. "Let me go on 
while you come to terms with it. I guess you turned up in 
my office the other night because you were angry and you'd 
been drinking and you wanted to lash out at Andrew and you 
thought the best way to lash out at Andrew was to stir up 
something with me. So you turned up with no real plan in 
mind but in a mood for trouble and things got out of hand. 
But it turned out reasonably well because nothing really 
happened except you took off your clothes and showed me 
your body. And I won't tell Andrew or anybody else so it 
remains just between us. If you can get over your 
embarrassment at baring yourself in front of me, we can go 
on and lead our lives the way we have been. If that's what 
you want. I only have one question outstanding."

"Yes?" I could hear her breathing. "What's that?"

"How come you have pubic hair like you do? It's like a wild 
and overgrown fertile garden."

She blinked severely and sat back in her chair. "You don't 
like it?" she asked instinctively, as a woman would do.

"Rachel, I love it. I can't stop thinking about it."

She looked at me with wide eyes, the flush points bright on 
her face. "Christ," she said. It seemed like it was her 
'bad' word. Then she giggled, dropped her head and put her 
face in her hands. "Good heavens," she muttered. "This 
certainly hasn't gone the way I thought it would." She 
lifted her head, a small smile on her lips. "Do I have to 
talk about this? I guess I must, in the circumstances. I 
guess I owe you." She shrugged her shoulders. "It's been 
that way ever since it came along. I hated it when I was a 
girl. A couple of times I've.," she looked at me with 
narrowed eyes, ".trimmed it, you know? But in the end I've 
grown accustomed to it and I guess these days I like it 
that way."

"Girls I know trim it for the beach," I said.

"Ever seen me on the beach? I hate the beach. My skin burns 
to a crisp."

"Or the pool."

"Ditto."

"So," I said conspiratorially, "your sexy secret garden 
remains tucked away and hidden from view."

"Not quite. There's Andrew."

"And me."

"God, don't remind me. And you."

"No other? Nothing extra-marital?"

Her eyes flashed at me. "Once," she said shortly. "It was a 
fair time ago, before we came here, and I won't be saying 
anything more."

I grinned at her. "Does Andrew know?"

"No. And that's it. No more. Good heavens, you are 
unbelievably intrusive." She studied my face. She was only 
pretending to be violated. I could see the quickening in 
her eyes.

"It's time to talk about me," I said.

"Is it?"

"You know it is. What did you think and what do you think 
now?"

"I heard it from others. They say you're cool and confident 
but also arrogant."

"And now?"

"No change."

"So why did you risk coming to see me the other night?"

"Because it was a risk."

"And?"

"I see," she said. "You want me to say it. Okay, I admit I 
find you attractive. God, you really are arrogant."

"And now?"

"No change." She raised her hand in a cautious gesture. 
"Mark," she said, in a changed tone, "we have to stop 
this."

"Why? You're enjoying it."

"Because we're sailing in dangerous waters and you know 
that as well as I do."

"So a raging affair is completely out of the question?"

"Completely."

"Even though I stopped being married years ago and I'm 
immediately available? Even though you find me attractive? 
Even though I've seen your naked body and I love and adore 
it? Even though I'm coming quickly to the point of loving 
and adoring everything about you? And even though your 
husband foolishly neglects to love and adore you?"

"I never said that," she snapped.

"But you did, you certainly did, in various and roundabout 
ways."

She sighed. "Mark, you must stop this. There's no future in 
it."

I leaned over the table and propped my chin in my hand. I 
looked into her caramel eyes at close range. "In my mind," 
I said, "I'm looking at your cute upturned breasts and 
those stubby red nipples."

"Stop it."

"In my mind, I'm looking at the secret forest nestled 
between your hips."

"Stop it."

"It's hidden away under the table, under your dress. What 
colour pants are you wearing?"

"Christ. Just ordinary white."

"The best kind. In my mind, I'm taking them off. Drawing 
them slowly down your legs."

"Mark, stop it. You must stop it."

I sat back from the table. "Let's go to my place," I said.

"Okay," she said, straight away.

Uncommon events commonly bring about uncommon behaviour 
which can bring two people together in a relationship which 
in the normal run of events would have no chance of 
eventuating. These apparently random episodes are our 
greatest allies in the battle against the humdrum and the 
boredom of too much of our lives. As we grow older, we 
build up files of lost opportunities. We have regrets for 
unsaid words and undone actions, for unused and under-
utilised skills and mostly for unknown opportunities, and 
what we discover later what we should have known earlier.
These things are common to us all. My greatest regret is 
for the unseen opportunities which passed me by; something 
I didn't know until I found out, and then it was too late. 
I'll tell you a joyless little story.

I remember many years ago being smitten with a slim and 
lovely dark-haired girl I worked with for a short time. She 
held her head high, she did her job efficiently and I knew 
almost nothing about her except she had small olive-skinned 
classically-shaped breasts because I stood over her one day 
and looked down the front of her dress. I cannot remember 
ever having had a conversation with her and we had no 
contact other than what was necessary in the work place. I 
had dreams about this girl but she was unattainable. 
Nothing about her promoted any expectation. She wasn't for 
me.

Or so I thought. Years later a woman I knew well who knew 
her well told me this girl had been head over heels in love 
with me. She thought I was an arrogant and conceited 
bastard but she was infatuated to the point that she froze 
whenever I came near, lest she gave herself away and 
appeared foolish.

Everybody knew about this except me. It was a minor office 
amusement. She was given sensible advice about what to do 
about her affliction. It was said I wouldn't know about 
such matters unless I was hit over the head with a brick 
and told in short and simple sentences. She was advised she 
could do much better but if she was so fixed on me, it 
would be in her interest to initiate meaningful contact.
But she didn't. Instead, humiliated, she took up with a 
colleague she didn't particularly like and resigned her 
job. I never saw her again. I heard she married that man 
but it didn't last more than three years. Her previous 
remote attachment to me became a great source of irritation 
in the marriage, because he knew about her infatuation as 
well as anybody but me. His friends called her Superbitch 
because she treated him so badly, and he was a perfectly 
nice man. She drifted in and out of other relationships and 
she was regarded as an unhappy woman. Those who knew her 
believed her to be a sad case.

I don't know whether this girl and I could have 
accomplished anything worthwhile together. I never knew 
enough about her to be able to come to a judgement. I was 
certainly taken with her at the time and the attraction was 
more than physical. But whatever might or might not have 
been, an opportunity for both us slipped away because she 
was afraid of getting hurt and I was blind and stupid.

When I was told this story I was depressed for days. The 
saddest thing is that I can't remember her name. I can see 
her face and I can see her breasts but I can't remember her 
name.

Happy Ending (for some): Rachel and I have been together 
now for four years. Andrew moved on and Rachel stayed. With 
me. Funny how things turn out.

ENDS
---------------------------------------------------------

* DrSpin/Neil Anthony is at http://www.ruthiesclub.com

* also at neil@ruthiesclub.com and at http://www.ruthiesclub.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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