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From: michaeld38@aol.communism (MichaelD38)
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Subject: {ASSM} Vector ch.4 {MichaelD}
Date: Fri, 16 Jun 2000 22:10:09 -0400
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AUTHOR'S NOTE AND LEGAL STUFF
I did not e-mail you this story. If you unexpectedly found it in your mailbox,
it's because your kid and/or your spouse is subscribing to adult newsgroups
without your knowledge. Flame them, not me.
This story contains explicit sex. If you're a minor, you've obviously gotten
past whatever paltry filters your parents tried to put on your computer, so
hell, you might as well read it. No one ever died from reading about sex.
This story is mine. Free reposting and archiving is okay; commercial use is
not (that includes using it on some slimeball banner farm). Contact me if you
have any questions; cross me and I'll have you fed to rabid weasels.
This is another serial like "Call Girl Cheerleaders." I have no idea where
it's going or how it will end. Want to find out? Send me mail.
My stories, including this one, are archived at:
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/MichaelD/www/
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Richard_Bissell/www (all the work of my alter ego)
www.storiesonline.net (complete but not always up)
---
VECTOR
Copyright 2000 by MichaelD38@aol.com. No commercial use without prior
authorization.
<->
"You know, I feel rather damned good, Jake."
"You should."
"You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch."
"Yes."
"It's sort of what we have instead of God."
"Some people have God," I said. "Quite a lot."
"He never worked very well with me."
--Ernest Hemingway, "The Sun also Rises"
<->
Chapter 4.
Victor spent the rest of the day lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling.
Whether or not Hemingway had truly gained powers of speech, the cat did nothing
unusual, simply curling up on the bed beside him and going to sleep. Didn't
even thank me for getting the Science Diet, Victor thought. Isn't that just
like a cat? He considered saying something to Hemingway but thought better of
it. He wasn't sure which result would be more disturbing: having Hemingway
answer him, or having him ignore him completely as he should have done.
Victor truly feared that he was losing his mind. There was no way he could
explain the encounter with the woman at the supermarket except as a full-blown
hallucination. That, or it had actually happened, which meant the world no
longer operated the way Victor had once thought.
Later in the afternoon, Victor finally rose from the bed and turned on his
television. He flipped through the channels until reaching F/X. A rerun of
the "X-Files" was on. It was one he had seen before, about the man who could
control minds by telling people stories about the color blue.
A light went on in Victor's head. Was something like this going on? Had
Victor somehow gained such a power? It was crazy, but no crazier than anything
else that had gone on.
Victor looked over at Hemingway, who had followed him into the living room and
curled up on the green ottoman across the room. Speak to me, Victor thought.
Speak to me. He sent the thoughts as hard as he could, concentrating until his
head began to hurt.
Nothing happened.
Hemingway didn't even look at him, occupied as he was with staring at some
invisible spot on the wall.
Victor gave up with his attempt at telepathy. Maybe it was something else.
Victor had never actually asked for anything to happen, except maybe that first
day when he had thought about Leslie taking her top off. But that had been a
casual, unintentional fantasy. Just like everything else. He had just let his
mind drift. Maybe that was the key.
He tried to let go of this idea, tried to lose himself in a fantasy. He
thought back to the previous day, to the show Leslie had put on for him. He
could have stopped class, dismissed the other students to be alone with her.
He could have gone across the room, pulled the dildo out of her, dropped to his
knees and buried his face between those long tan thighs.
For a few minutes Victor indeed lost himself in thoughts of making love to
Leslie. He came back to reality as the TV show cut to a commercial. He opened
his eyes and looked around.
No one was there. Not Leslie, not anyone else. Even Hemingway had gone to
sleep again.
He sighed. He had not gained any super powers after all. Something else was
going on.
---
Victor got through most of Friday without incident. His first class did little
besides (as usual) sit impatiently waiting for their weekend to begin.
Danielle dropped her article off at his office without any further
propositions. He met with Jacob, his teaching assistant, for about twenty
minutes during lunch to go over the lesson plan for the next week When the
afternoon class rolled around, Victor steeled himself for another fifty minutes
in Leslie's presence and descended to the classroom.
Although Victor had difficulty not checking Leslie every few minutes to see if
she was about to start removing her clothes again, he managed to conduct his
lecture without losing his composure. Leslie was attentive, but no more. When
the bell rang, she gave him a quick smile and a "Have a good weekend,
Professor," on her way out. But that was it.
Victor walked back to his office hoping against hope that these episodes might
have ended. When he unlocked his office, he discovered something on the floor.
An envelope, apparently something someone had slipped under the door.
The outside of the envelope was unmarked. Victor sat at his desk and opened it
up.
Inside was a letter, the point of which became clear very quickly. It was
written in loopy, feminine script. "I'm such a chicken for doing this this
way," it said. "I know we can't be together." "I keep telling myself this is
just a crush." "I don't want to get you in trouble." On it went for a page
and a half.
It was unsigned, but Victor had a sinking feeling who it was from. He dug into
his desk until he found the introductory pieces he had asked his students to
write on the first day of class. He found Leslie's in a few minutes. The
handwriting was identical.
Victor sighed. What had he wished for several days before? That the Leslies
of the world would pay him more attention? Now he had gotten his wish.
Could this be an explanation? If Leslie truly had a crush on him--something he
had certainly gone through before, though not with a girl as seemingly
unattainable as Leslie--could she be doing all this as some bizarre means of
seduction? Might she have taken her top off and simply acted as if she didn't
know what she was doing?
And then . . . shown up with her twin sister that night, dressed only in her
underwear, at the precise moment Victor had been fantasizing about her? And
somehow gotten the rest of the one o'clock class to completely ignore her
X-rated exhibition Wednesday afternoon?
No. That made no more sense than the rest of this. And whatever Leslie was
feeling, it did not explain Danielle's proposition or the behavior of that poor
woman at the supermarket yesterday.
Unless maybe Leslie was trying deliberately to drive him nuts. Maybe, like so
many students at this university--the University of Spoiled Children, the local
wags liked to call it--she had enough family money to bribe Danielle and her
fellow students to play their parts in this scheme. Maybe the woman in the
parking lot was not a mother but a prostitute Leslie had hired.
Victor struggled to fit the pieces of this puzzle together. It all fit,
almost. But one element refused to be forced into the pattern. Nothing, but
nothing, could explain that conversation he had had with Hemingway yesterday
morning. No amount of money could make a cat talk.
The only way to make it fit was if Leslie was in fact scheming against him, and
the stress of this ordeal had made Victor imagine that conversation with his
cat.
Victor looked at his phone. Not entirely sure what he was doing, he picked it
up and dialed his home number.
It answered on the second ring, with a clatter as if someone had simply knocked
the handset off the receiver. The voice that came over the line was
distressingly familiar.
"Yo, Vic, is that you?"
Victor slammed the phone down without answering, lurching backwards in his
chair. He felt his heart hammering in his chest like a cannibal drumbeat.
He couldn't take any more of this. He jumped up from his desk and practically
ran out to his car. He had to get out of this school, away from everything.
He jumped on the Harbor Freeway and drove north toward Pasadena, then up into
the hills. His agitation began to ebb as he left the Los Angeles basin, but he
kept going, checking his rearview mirror constantly to see if anyone was
following him. He drove east and got onto Interstate 15, then U.S. 395,
driving up into the Eastern Sierra Mountains.
The sun had long set by the time he stopped near Bishop, finally feeling as if
he was away from his problems. He checked into a motel, paying cash and using
a false name.
This would be a test. If the craziness had followed him, he would know it was
him rather than anyone else's devious torment.
---
Victor slept until nearly noon. He woke up slowly, rolling over and cuddling
with the body beside him. Leslie seemed to be awake, and she spooned with him,
taking his hand between hers. He buried his face in her long blonde hair,
sniffing her feminine scent.
Victor's eyes flew open, and he practically leapt out of bed. He grabbed the
top sheet as he realized that he was naked. Leslie rolled over, faced filled
with concern. She was naked as well, his sudden exit from the bed having
jerked the covers from her upper body.
"Victor? What's wrong?"
Heart pounding, Victor glanced around the room. He recognized his weekender
suitcase, which he had not brought with him, sitting open at the foot of the
bed. Nearby was another overnight bag. Female clothing spilled out of it.
More clothes--his and Leslie's, apparently--were strewn across the floor.
"Victor?"
He looked back at the girl in the bed. She sat up, face creased in confusion.
"Are you okay? What's wrong?"
"I--I--" He exhaled slowly. "I don't know."
"Did you have a bad dream?"
Leslie sat there looking up at him, unconcerned about her nudity. Victor
looked around the room again. He had come here alone. He knew that. And yet
. . .
"Maybe," he said. "Maybe that was it."
"No one knows we're here. It's all right. There's nothing to be scared of."
She reached out her hand, smiling at him.
"Come back to bed."
Victor let her take his hand and pull him back into the bed. He lay beside
her, and she curled up under his arm, head on his shoulder. She ran her
fingers through his chest hair, caressing him idly.
"I still can't believe we did this," she said.
"Me neither," he replied in all honesty.
"You're not mad, are you?"
"No. It's all right."
"I really enjoyed it. Last night was great."
"I'm glad."
She snuggled closer to him, sliding her leg up his thigh. Her hand moved down
his abdomen to his groin, finding his penis. She played with him for a minute
before producing an erection. Then she crawled onto his body, getting above
him on her hands and knees. She let her long hair fall down into his face,
then rubbed her nose again his.
He was unable to stop himself from reaching up to fondle her breasts. They
felt the same as they had that first night, spongy and firm.
"Mmm," she said. She kissed him slowly.
"I don't understand this," Victor said, "but I'm grateful."
Leslie giggled.
"You don't understand why I'm attracted to you?"
"That and other things."
"It's because you make me feel safe. Because you're so smart. And because
you're hot. And because . . . " She lowered her hips, getting herself in line
with him, and backed down onto his erection, moaning softly. " . . . because
you have a great dick."
Victor felt himself sinking into her wet, heated sex, and groped at her
buttocks. She ground herself down at him, rocking back and forth.
Leslie whimpered, then gritted her teeth, making her breath whistle between
them as she continued making love to him. Victor brought his hands back up to
her wonderful breasts, playing with her gently.
"My nipples," she moaned, "suck my nipples."
He bent forward, taking a breast in his mouth. He sucked on her until the
nipple was hard and swollen, pushing it around with his tongue. Leslie moaned
again, rocking faster, digging herself against him. Victor moved to her other
breast, giving the same treatment.
All at once, Leslie wrapped her arms around Victor's head, pulling him forward
as she sat upright in his lap. He kept his mouth fastened to her breast as she
bounced up and down rapidly.
"Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, fuck." The words came in a rush, accompanied by the
tremors that began shooting through her body. Victor held her tightly, feeling
the vibrations of her approaching climax. Then she let out a squeak, squeezing
his neck so hard it almost hurt, and shivered in release.
The spasms peaked, then subsided. Her motions slowed as she struggled to catch
her breath. At last she released her grip on his neck and leaned back to look
into his eyes. She smiled at Victor warmly, guilelessly. It was the look of a
young girl in love, not one engaged in a cruel scheme to drive him mad.
"You make me feel so good."
Victor returned the smile. He felt something here, even if he had no idea what
was going on.
"So do you."
She fell to her side, pulling him on top of her. He remained inside her as she
wrapped herself around him. He began to move within her, withdrawing, then
burying himself in her wetness. A few eager strokes were enough to bring him
to the brink. Leslie hugged him tightly, urging him on, squeezing herself
around him. With a grunt, he spurted off helplessly into her body.
When he withdrew, Leslie rolled over onto his chest, snuggling against him. As
Victor caught his breath, he examined the room around them again. Everything
he saw made it appear as if the two of them had run off for a weekend together,
hiding in the mountains from people who might disapprove of their relationship.
Leslie's bra was draped over one of the chairs by the window; Victor's
pants--unquestionably the ones he had worn yesterday--were in a wrinkled pile
in the middle of the floor. One of his shoes was by the door, the other out of
sight. Obviously they had attacked each other the moment the door was closed.
Except he had no memory of any of it.
"What time do you think we got here last night?" he asked.
"Mmm. I don't know. I fell asleep on the way up here, remember?" She smiled,
hugging him. "And when we got here, I had other things on my mind."
"What did you tell your friends?"
"Just that I was going home for the weekend. And I told my folks I was going
to Palm Springs with a friend of mine. So they won't call the house looking
for me. We're safe, don't worry."
"Okay."
"What did you tell Hemingway?"
Victor's heart skipped a beat.
"What?"
"Hemingway. What did you tell him about this weekend?"
Victor struggled to get control of his breathing.
"My cat?"
Leslie looked up at him curiously.
"Isn't that his name? Hemingway? Or did I hear you wrong?"
"No. That's his name."
"Oh. So what did you tell him?"
Victor closed his eyes and took a slow breath.
"I didn't really tell him anything. But he'll be okay. I just got him a new
bag of cat food the other day."
"Oh. Maybe you should call him then. Just so he doesn't worry."
Victor struggled with himself for a moment.
"Maybe later."
Leslie snuggled closer to him, and Victor put his arm around her shoulders.
Every time he thought he was getting a handle on this, some new bizarre twist
occurred. But of course Leslie knew about Hemingway, he thought. They had
probably had a nice conversation that first night, after Victor fell asleep.
Hemingway had just neglected to mention it. That was all. Nothing unusual.
His cat and his girlfriends usually got along famously.
"What do you want to do today?" she asked, smiling. "Besides tear up the
sheets?"
"I don't know. What about you?"
"I thought we could go for a hike, if you're up to it. If I haven't worn you
out."
She giggled.
"No. That's a good idea."
Leslie got up to take a shower, and although Victor kept waiting for her to
vanish, she emerged, clean and dripping with water, about ten minutes later.
Victor himself then took a shower, and likewise waited for things to go crazy
again, but Leslie simply remained in the bathroom, drying her hair and putting
on her makeup.
After that, Victor was not surprised to find a pair of hiking shorts (his;
someone had thoughtfully packed them for him) in his suitcase. The two of them
dressed and left the room.
---
Although Victor had not noticed when he arrived (alone?) the night before, the
motel was not far from a state park. They drove down the road and parked in
the lot near the entrance. With Leslie in the lead, they picked a hiking trail
and headed up into the woods.
This aberration--as Victor was beginning to think of his episodes--had now
lasted over an hour and showed no signs of ending. Obviously he had no control
over these things, whatever was going on. He resigned himself to playing along
as best he could, and let his reservations dissolve in the luxury of watching
Leslie's pert, khaki-clad buttocks flexing as she hiked up the trail just ahead
of him.
After about an hour, they stopped on an a rocky overlook above the town. A
nearly unbroken carpet of evergreens stretched out before them, and beyond
that, the hazy brown vista of the Central Valley below.
Leslie leaned against him, slipping her arm around his waist.
"It's pretty."
"Like a dream," he said.
"Have you ever had a dream, Victor, that you were so sure was real? What if
you were unable to wake from that dream? How would you the difference between
the dream world and the real world?"
Victor turned to her, startled. Something about what she had just said sounded
familiar. A second later, he remembered. It was a line from "The Matrix,"
when Morpheus has just set in motion the events that will jerk Neo out of his
computer-generated dreamworld.
Leslie smiled at him.
Then she vanished. Everything else went with her.
---
Victor woke up. He was back in the motel room, in bed, alone. No suitcases
were in sight, no female undergarments decorated the furniture. He still wore
the boxers he had gone to bed in the night before.
He sat up, feeling his body as if he wasn't sure it was real. Then he noticed
something in bed with him, something protruding from under the other pillow. A
piece of paper.
He reached for it. It was an envelope, one that had already been torn open.
As he looked inside, he realized what it was.
It was Leslie's note, her "secret admirer" letter. He pulled it out. Inside
the folded paper were a pair of dry pine needles, the sort of thing one might
pick up inadvertently during a hike through the woods.
---
<To be continued>
---
Vector
Copyright 2000 by MichaelD38@aol.com
Free redistribution permitted; no commercial use without authorization
Michael
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--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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