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Message-ID: <51896asstr$1126206603@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
Reply-To: "The Confessor" <pr0nOMGLEIKREMOVE@ALLCAPSconfessor.org>
From: "The Confessor" <pr0nOMGLEIKREMOVE@ALLCAPSconfessor.org>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 08 Sep 2005 07:21:48 EDT
Subject: {ASSM} Heartstrings Chp. 2 (sci-fi, mf, rom, mast) {The Confessor}
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Date: Thu, 08 Sep 2005 15:10:03 -0400
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(Note that this story was written using advanced formatting such as italics 
and indentation. Absent this formatting, readability & enjoyment may be 
significantly reduced. The HTML copy with correct formatting is posted on 
my ASSTR website, at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/confessor/www/)

"Has everyone finished?"

I had, barely, but a quick glance around the classroom confirmed that I was 
in the minority. Most of the students were still bent over their Notetaker 
pads, scribbling frantically, but none of them dared admit needing extra 
time. Karl Hopkins' first rule of Advanced Humanities was 'keep up or be 
kicked out,' and he had been known to give impromptu demonstrations of that 
policy.

When nobody answered, Mr. Hopkins initiated shutdown on our Notetakers with 
a subtle flick of his wrist, drawing a groan from the sizable portion of 
the class that hadn't been able to finish in time. Heather caught my eye 
from across the room and tilted her deactivated pad slightly toward me 
before stowing it in her day bag. The request was obvious, and I nodded 
affirmatively. We would be sharing notes on the ride home. Meanwhile, Mr. 
Hopkins cleared his own notes from the huge video display behind him with 
another flick of his wrist and moved to address the class.

"I've transferred your individual writing assignments for this week to your 
Notetakers; you can access them as soon as you leave school. You can 
leave," Mr. Hopkins paused long enough to favor us with an ironic smile, 
"as soon as you analyze this speech to my satisfaction."

With yet another flick of his wrist, the lights in the room dimmed 
slightly, and the video screen lit up to display a wooden podium, framed by 
blue curtains hanging in the background. It was the Press Briefing Room in 
the White House, and standing behind the podium was Edmund Marshall, 
president of the United States of America. Hopkins walked between the rows 
of desks to the rear of the room as the president began to speak.

"I've consulted with my advisors and the members of my cabinet, and they 
firmly believe that this measure is constitutional. Support among the 
medical community is nearly unanimous, and the Surgeon General has assured 
me that the benefits far outweigh any risk or potential for abuse. Despite 
my earlier reservations, I am honored to sign the Infectious Disease 
Geographic Survey Act into law."

They'd filtered the audio to remove extraneous sound, but the length of the 
silence which followed and the president's uneasy expression revealed just 
how divisive his statement was. After several uncomfortable seconds, he 
cleared his throat and continued.

"Furthermore, I have volunteered to be the first American to donate my 
blood. My daughter Josephine will be the second, and members of my staff 
and cabinet and their families will immediately follow. It will be a 
sacrifice required of all Americans; nobody will be exempt, no matter their 
position."

The video paused, and the lights brightened.

"Opinions?"

Nearly half of the students raised their hands as Karl walked back between 
the rows of seats. Amy Cole, sitting in the front row of the class, waved 
her hand frantically; she would need Hopkins' endorsement to attend her 
father's alma mater. Harold Weisman, three rows back, was only slightly 
less restrained; his enthusiastic classroom participation served to offset 
the dubious quality of his work. Most of the other students were far more 
restrained, however, operating on the theory that those who seemed at least 
somewhat willing to volunteer their opinion would be less likely to be 
asked for it. I didn't bother, since I knew he would have my opinion 
regardless of how I conducted myself.

A lively debate over the competing virtues of personal privacy and civic 
duty ensued, with Amy advocating privacy and Harry emphasizing civic duty, 
but I ceased to listen when I caught Karl stroking his beard impatiently, 
an reflexive action signifying that Amy and Harry had misinterpreted the 
question. Nevertheless, Karl let the debate continue unimpeded for a few 
more minutes before attempting to turn it to deeper matters.

"What does this mean in light of President Marshall's agenda thus far? 
Heather?"

I looked up in surprise when I heard Mr. Hopkins call Heather's name, then 
looked apprehensively toward her as she fidgeted, gathering an answer. In 
any other class, Heather would have been more than a match for Harry 
Weisman or even Amy Cole, but a political naivité born from her upbringing 
as an Objector sometimes presented itself at the most inopportune times.

"It sounds like a retreat. President Marshall's opposition to the IDGS won 
him the primaries, and he wouldn't abandon it unless he knew the 
Republicans could override his veto."

If I had been eating, I would have choked in surprise. The reality was 
somewhat more complex, but Heather's observation was surprisingly astute. I 
doubted even Amy could have come up with better. On the other hand...

"And your opinion, Robert?"

There was the rub. Mr. Hopkins expected me to give my observations next, 
but in doing so I would undoubtedly show Heather up. I couldn't play dumb. 
Mr. Hopkins always seemed to know when I wasn't being entirely forthcoming.

"His stance on IDGS won him the primaries, but it would have cost him the 
presidency if the Republican bribery scandal hadn't hit the press right 
before the election. Polls have consistently shown that the majority of 
Americans support the measure. He might have had enough votes in Congress 
to uphold a veto, but the Republicans could have used it to destroy the 
Democratic congressional majority next election cycle. By supporting it 
wholeheartedly, he might gain enough political capital to overturn the 
Sedition Act, which is actually far more intrusive."

Mr. Hopkins nodded in affirmation, and another flick of his wrist blanked 
the screen behind him and brightened the lights.

"Watch for Congressional action on the Sedition Act, and keep tabs on 
public opinion as the IDGS is put into practice - both may figure into this 
semester's final projects. Also, remember to turn in your papers by next 
Friday. Class is dismissed."

***

I caught up with Heather at Transportation, but the clamor of students was 
loud enough to drown any meaningful apology I might have made, so I held my 
tongue as we searched for one of the smaller segmented railcars that would 
take us home most efficiently. We finally found an empty one with two 
seats, and the doors closed behind us as we took our seats, effectively 
muting the noise without. Faced with continued silence as our segment began 
moving forward, I decided to try my hand at an apology.

"Hea-," I began, but she interrupted me.

"Do you want to come over tonight?"

"Do your parents want me to come over tonight?"

Heather's parents were staunch Objectors. They educated Heather at home 
until the maturation of the Truancy Act threatened them with criminal 
prosecution, only then allowing her - grudgingly - to attend classes at the 
public school. She would have matriculated at the Basic Education School, 
with little chance at college or a professional career, if I hadn't spent 
several weeks tutoring her in basic subjects last summer. They had 
tolerated my presence in their home then, but since school began their 
behavior had become increasingly hostile.

"They're on Retreat."

I nodded as though I understood, though in truth I had no idea what she 
meant. 'Objector' was a general label applied to several different 
religious, social, and political movements, each with unique beliefs and 
practices. They were free to practice those individual beliefs to a point - 
the Truancy Act being a notable exception - but proselytizing a minor was a 
jailable offense, and the segmented railcars were sometimes monitored for 
compliance with laws regulating public behavior.

"What about Erica?"

Erica was Heather's younger sister, fourteen years old to Heather's 
sixteen, and fully capable of informing their parents of Heather's 
disobedience.

"She's staying at a friend's tonight," Heather smiled and pulled her long 
red hair over her shoulder. "I figured we could, you know... do stuff."

By 'stuff,' of course, she meant things common to nearly all teenagers in 
the United States, even in those restrictive times: kissing, petting, heavy 
at times, with a slight chance of more. We hadn't actually progressed 
beyond clothed petting yet, as much as we both wanted to; we hadn't really 
had the time. Heather's parents scheduled her time religiously, and even 
the few hours that remained unscheduled were usually supervised. We might 
have been alone in our segment of the railcar, but we might not have been. 
With the video and audio feeds, you could never say for certain, and 
misbehavior could be punished through parental notification, civil fines, 
or even worse, automatic demotion to the Basic Education School.

"I'd like that." I replied with elaborate mildness, intent on disguising 
exactly how much the thought appealed to me.

Heather's smile grow wider and took on a knowing edge, as if she understood 
everything. Completely. She opened her mouth to speak again, but a soft 
ringing sound came simultaneously from both of our day bags, interrupting 
whatever she was about to say. It was our Notetakers, signifying that we'd 
passed beyond the school's blackout range and could now reactivate them our 
check our assignments.

Heather got to her Notetaker first, and she stared at her assignments 
glumly.

"Hopkins. Five pages on the IDGS. More than usual." she grimaced, but 
somehow still managed to look beautiful. "Help me with it?" "Of course," I 
nodded as my own Notetaker sprang to life, then froze.

Hopkins. 10 Pages. Importance of Ethical Behavior in the Classroom.

"What's wrong?" Heather asked concernedly, then gasped as I tilted the 
screen toward her.

"Ten pages? By Friday?" she said disgustedly, before her own face blanched. 
"He knows!" she whispered.

I nodded forlornly. I'd been helping Heather with her writing assignments 
since she joined Hopkins' class. It was technically against regulations, 
although I suspected that many other students at least shared their 
research. Penalties were up to the teacher, but could include automatic 
failure and demotion to Basic. If I was lucky, this paper might be the only 
penalty, if I wrote the best paper of my life, and if...

"I can't work with you on the next paper, Heath." Or on any paper, for any 
subject, for that matter, but it seemed prudent to stick with the immediate 
future.

"That's okay, Rob." She said almost flippantly, then with renewed concern. 
"But ten pages? By Friday?"

"I'll deal." I pledged. And I would, even if I didn't exactly know how.

"So I guess tonight..." Heather let the sentence hang.

"We're still on." I broke in determinedly. That was one thing I did know.

***

My parents were an inscrutable mixture of liberal and conservative. By 
Mom's decree, home-cooked family dinners were obligatory in our house; we 
rarely ate apart, and we never ate out. So it was over a old-fashioned meal 
of chicken and rice that I asked my parents for permission to 'study' alone 
with Heather that night. My mother looked across the table at my father, 
who hesitated a moment before nodding, whereupon she rendered her verdict:

"Be back by bedtime."

And that was their only condition, their only admonition, though they had 
to have known that this session could not have been sanctioned by Heather's 
parents.

Family dinners, regimented sleep schedules, and tacit approval of a 
clandestine rendezvous with my girlfriend; my parents were truly 
inscrutable. As much as I was grateful for their occasional generous 
disposition, I never tried to understand their reasoning while they lived.

And when they died, I lost that opportunity forever.

***

By previous arrangement, I knocked on the back door of Heather's house at 
around seven o'clock, and she answered the door wearing patterned flannel 
pajamas which matched her sparkling green eyes and an eager smile. She 
pulled me over the threshold so abruptly I almost tripped, and before I 
could recover my balance she favored me with a wildly enthusiastic kiss 
that soon dissolved into giggles on both sides.

"So," she said when we recovered, "Where do we start?"

The mischievous twinkle in her eye suggested several possibilities.

"We could start with Advanced Humanities," I answered blandly - and 
facetiously, of course - only to be answered by another kiss, this one with 
passion enough to leave us both breathless.

"Or... we could end with Advanced Humanities." I finally gasped out after 
what seemed like several minutes.

Another quick, soul-searing kiss, and Heather grasped my hand and pulled me 
behind her. She led me through the kitchen, past the room which led to the 
study den and front entrance, and up a set of stairs which opened into a 
short hallway lined with a handful of doors. Her pace more restrained now, 
she brought me to rest beside the first door on the right.

"Rob," Heather looked earnestly into my eyes and bit her lip nervously 
before continuing. "I want you to see my bedroom, but we can't... I mean, I 
don't think I'm ready to..."

Have sex? I'd hardly considered that a possibility! I wasn't on the pill, 
and Heather... Well, her parents were Objectors, and the little I knew of 
them suggested they'd view the pill as a gateway to immorality.

"We'll go only as far as you want to," I assured her, stroking her hand 
with my fingers.

"But no sex," she insisted determinedly, pulling her hand away for 
emphasis. She blushed prettily, as she often did when confronted with frank 
discussion of sexual activity.

"Do you want to have sex?"

"No. Yes. I mean, I do, but-" She paused for a second, flustered, before 
continuing. "Sometimes, in the instant after we kiss, I want to do... to do 
everything. Things I know I'm not ready for, things that would scare me if 
I thought about them any other time, but I want to do them anyway. Does 
that make sense?"

Her eyes pleaded for understanding, and I took her hands in my own before 
answering. "No sex."

"Thank you," she whispered in relief, staring fondly into my eyes for a 
long second before opening the door and pulling me in after her.

Heather's room was roughly square in form, with a window looking over the 
street opposite the door to the hallway, and a small closet on the right 
side. The walls were painted a dull white, duller still when lit only by 
the dim castings of street lamps outside, the carpet a darker shade of 
gray. Like every other room in the house, the furnishings were spare and 
Spartan. A twin-sized bed lay beneath the window, raised slightly off the 
floor by a metal frame, and a small dresser sat against the wall next to 
the closed closet. The room - indeed, the entire house - was meant to be 
used rather than enjoyed.

It was only when I saw Heather contrasted with that cheerless room that I 
finally began to understand: she'd existed in that house for fifteen years, 
but she'd only recently been given a chance at real life. She hungered 
desperately for enjoyment, and wanted to be enjoyed nearly as much. She 
stood in the center of the room like a single rose in a bush full of 
thorns, looking at me intently, waiting for... what?

I stepped forward and gently brushed her hair away from her cheek, watching 
apprehension fade into breathless anticipation. With the index finger of 
that hand, I lightly began to trace the elegant curve of her jaw. Her lips 
parted slightly with the sensation, presenting an irresistible invitation, 
and we leaned toward each other for a long, gentle kiss. As we parted, I 
moved that finger lower, traced the edge of the collar to her pajama top 
until I found the highest button, and hooked my finger around it as I 
looked a question into her eyes.

Heather hesitated a moment, then nodded, and I unfastened the button before 
leaning in for another kiss. I dealt with the remainder of the buttons in 
the same fashion between kisses, carefully navigating my finger between the 
twin curves of her breasts, until my eyes could trace an uninterrupted line 
of pale skin from neck to navel. With a nervous smile, Heather stepped back 
and pulled the two sides over her shoulders, revealing two perfect breasts; 
not small by any means but not so large as to sag noticeably, topped with 
puffy areolas, slightly darker than the surrounding skin, and small raised 
nipples. They were the most beautiful breasts I'd ever seen. Then again, 
they were the first breasts I had ever seen.

I watched speechlessly, helplessly in Heather's thrall, as she put her arms 
at her sides and shrugged her shoulders, sending the pajama top cascading 
down her back to a pile on the floor. By sheer force of will, I removed my 
gaze from the pleasant heaving of her breasts, and focused on her face, 
meeting her eyes with mine. My approval must have been evident from my 
expression, because there was no nervousness in her smile anymore, only 
excitement and renewed anticipation.

As Heather returned the favor, her fingers descending button-by-button, I 
began to familiarize myself with those magnificent breasts, tentatively 
brushing my fingers along the outside curves, along the bottom, across the 
top, marveling at their smooth texture, feeling their weight. When I 
finally, cautiously, touched an erect nipple, I was rewarded with an 
excited gasp. Heather pulled away briefly so I could throw my own shirt to 
the floor, and skin met skin as we came together for yet another kiss.

Somewhere in our barrage of kisses we made it to Heather's bed. Her former 
reticence was now completely dissolved; her breasts wriggled invitingly as 
she straddled herself over my hips, and she ground her cloth-covered crotch 
wantonly against the erection tenting the front of my pants. Now and again 
she would lean lower, mashing her breasts into my chest, and mashing her 
lips against mine with nearly as much pressure. Eventually her movements 
slowed, then stopped, and we lay together silent and content for several 
long minutes, sharing an occasional kiss, but content to go no further.

When passion rose again, it found our positions reversed; I was on top, 
bending down to kiss her lips, her cheek, her neck. When I kissed the upper 
curve of one of her breasts, I felt a shudder of pleasure course through 
her body. When I planted a gentle, lingering kiss on a nipple, a soft moan 
escaped her lips. But when I tentatively brushed a hand beneath the 
waistband of her pajama bottoms, she grabbed it with one of her own and I 
saw the apprehension in her eyes, as strong as it had ever been.

"No sex," I affirmed, "I'll keep my pants on."

Her hesitation this time was far more marked, but Heather eventually nodded 
assent, and she lifted her hips to assist as I slowly inched the twin 
elastic bands of her pajama bottoms and panties down her waist. When I 
finally pulled them free of her feet and tossed them beside the bed, 
however, she held her legs together. I turned my gaze up to study her face 
and saw that her eyes were tightly closed, and it looked like she was 
biting her lip. I immediately abandoned my place near the foot of her bed 
and moved to kneel beside her face.

Heather smiled as I began stroking her cheek with my fingers, but she still 
held her legs closed. When she opened her eyes, I saw that though the fear 
was diminished, some of it still remained.

"It's strange," I temporized, as I searched her reactions for a cause or a 
remedy. "I've always known you were beautiful, but now that I can look at 
every part of you..." I took her hand in mine. "I can honestly say that I 
have never seen a more beautiful index finger." I favored the tip of said 
finger with a kiss, delivered as formally as circumstances would allow, and 
Heather rewarded me with a giggle. Heartened by her response, I continued.

Her breasts were without blemish except for a minute spot of darker pigment 
which adorned - it did not mar - the outside curve of her right breast. I 
circled that dot with my finger as I spoke. "And I've never seen a more 
beautiful mole." Heather didn't laugh at that, but her breathing deepened 
as I placed a lingering kiss on the offending area.

Finally, I traced a finger further down. I felt Heather tense as it reached 
the gentle curve of her hips, but she relaxed when she realized that my 
destination wasn't the juncture of her legs. I stopped nearly at her knee, 
where a small patch of slightly darker skin announced the presence of a 
birthmark. "And I've never," I emphasized, "seen a more beautiful 
birthmark." I kissed this as well, again drawing a small giggle, which 
turned into full-blown laughter when I began bathing the area with my 
tongue.

When the laughter ended, I knelt next to her face and resumed stroking her 
cheek, staring silently into her eyes as I waited for her to speak.

"Are you going to... lick me?" She asked after a moment, and followed the 
question with an immediate blush.

I drew in my breath in surprise. I knew about 'licking,' as she called it, 
although the usual words for it were far less proper, but it was one act I 
was hesitant to try. On the other hand, I would have welcomed the 
equivalent blowjob unequivocally, and fair was fair.

"Do you want me to lick you?"

"It's one of those things," Heather said frustratedly. "When you're kissing 
me, I want... I want everything. But I don't know if I'm really ready, and 
I don't want to do anything I'll regret."

"No licking, then." I shook my head and tried to hide my relief. "But I do 
want to give you an orgasm."

"With your fingers?"

"Just my fingers." I pledged, and Heather gave a sigh of relief she made no 
attempt to hide.

"Thank you." She whispered, and I planned my course of attack.

My actions thus far would suggest a great deal of sexual and relationship 
experience where in truth I had none. At least, no practical sexual 
experience, and little enough with relationships. The sum of my carnal 
knowledge stemmed from hours spent surreptitiously browsing the illegal 
UnderNet archives of the old Internet, the unregulated Internet, where 
websites of every conceivable sort coexisted, from sites exhorting 
abstinence to sites promoting every conceivable sexual behavior or 
appliance. After my parents found the unauthorized link I had cause to 
regret my behavior for several months, but the illicit knowledge would 
serve me well tonight.

Heather's legs remained closed despite her verbal assent, so I focused my 
attention elsewhere at first. My lips planted kisses on her face while my 
fingers traced imaginary lines across those beautifully firm breasts, 
occasionally pausing to pay particular attention to her erect nipples. A 
few minutes of this and I traded fingers on her breasts for lips while my 
hands moved still lower, tracing patterns over her stomach, across her 
hips, and on her thighs, until her legs began to relax. When they opened, I 
made no sudden move toward that juncture, instead opting to devote my oral 
attention to her breasts while I gently manipulated the sparse pubic hair 
which began a few inches below her navel with one hand.

By the time I allowed that hand to range lower, Heather's arousal was 
palpable, and I felt heat and moisture as her hips rose to meet my 
searching fingers. Drawing on what I remembered, I traced my fingers in a 
rough oval around those lips from top to bottom, then back to top. Pulling 
my lips back from her breasts, I gauged the expressions on her face as I 
tried to match location with sensation. When I accidentally touched her 
clitoris, her eyes fluttered open and her mouth formed a tight 'O.' I 
responded with an apologetic grin and moved lower, insinuating a finger 
between her lips and gently moving it in and out. Heather was so wet that I 
needed no other lubrication.

I watched in detached fascination as Heather's breathing deepened, became 
ragged, and a flush spread across her chest. She began moving her hips 
against the invading digit, and I bent to kiss her on the lips. We held 
that kiss for several minutes as her thrusts against my finger became more 
and more pronounced until she came, moaning into my mouth. I could feel the 
shudders of ecstasy coursing through her body for several seconds as we lay 
together, eyes closed. Finally, reluctantly, I pulled away and opened my 
eyes... and my paradigm, the pattern that defined the course my life would 
take, everything... shifted.

Everything changed, although I did not understand it at first.

It was an iridescent cord, a cord woven from several smaller cords of 
various colors. It hung between myself and Heather, illuminated by a soft, 
unearthly glow, connecting us somehow, except... Except it didn't really 
exist, couldn't exist. Yes, I could look at it, examine it, but I could 
look beyond it just as easily, see the pale skin of her chest on the other 
side of it as if it wasn't there.

"Is... is something wrong?" Heather's voice quavered, and I realized with a 
start that I had been frowning at the strange cord. Frowning, in effect, at 
her.

As I hastily opened my mouth to reassure her, however, I was interrupted by 
the muted yet unmistakable sound of a car door slamming. Heather's face 
blanched as she twisted toward the window, and I'm certain my own 
expression was similar as I caught sight of Heather's parents, having 
returned unexpectedly from their Retreat.

"Oh, God." Heather groaned, and it sounded like an honest prayer, before 
she rounded on me. "You have to get out of here!"

Her exhortation was unnecessary. I was already sliding off of the bed, and 
five more seconds found me out the door into the hallway with my shirt held 
loosely in my hand. I sprinted down the stairs, feathering my hand along 
the railing for balance, dashed past the open arch which led to the den and 
front entrance, and ran into the kitchen. As I crouched next to the door to 
retrieve my forgotten day bag, I heard the crash of shattered glass behind 
me. I spun around, and my heart sank. There stood Heather's younger sister, 
Erica, dressed demurely in a knee-length skirt and button-down blouse. She 
stared at me openmouthed, apparently too shocked for words. The bowl she 
had been holding lay in shattered pieces at her feet, and tomato sauce 
pooled around her shoes and stained the white fabric of her socks.

I could feel Erica's eyes watching me, could feel them staring after me as 
I opened the back door and ran into the night.

***

If you enjoyed this story, please send me feedback at pr0n@confessor.org 
Your comments are the only payment I expect I'll receive for my labors.

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