A STORY OF JANE (IN THE FIRST-PERSON SINGULAR)

Chapter One



PROLOG


The most difficult aspect of the story I’m about to relate, its
most unique feature, is one of tense. Now, don’t get me wrong, I
realize that the first person singular past tense narrative style
has been around since well before Homer. That’s not it at all.
The problem is perspective.

I guess that doesn’t make any sense to you. No, of course it
doesn’t. It’s just that ....

Well, if you read this through to the end, I’ll remind you of
this paradox again. Then you’ll understand. It all makes perfect
sense ... once you can just understand the problem of tense.

…………………………………….

 And now, A TECHNICAL NOTE: Most of our modern-day
Christian-based holidays share their roots with other
celebrations based on pagan rituals. The word Easter is derived
from “Eastre,” the Great Mother Goddess of the all the northern
Saxon tribes. The annual celebration in her name was held on the
vernal equinox. Followers of Wicca (witches) also hold a great
celebration during the evening of the equinox (or the night
before), and there are at least five other religions that also
share the equinox as a time of celebration. Easter is always the
first Sunday following the first full moon following the vernal
equinox (which falls on March 21st, in most cases). The earliest
possible day to celebrate Easter, therefore, would be March 22nd,
but this would mean that the equinox would have to fall sometime
on a Saturday, and afterward, the full moon would have to occur
on the same day. Rare, but it does happen. The Easter holiday has
little bearing on this story. But, as it turns out, these dates
were exceedingly important.

……………………………………….


WEDNESDAY, the 18th of MARCH	

I had seen her in the reading room before. It took me a moment to
remember, but she had been there during the previous afternoon. I
had thought when I saw her the first time that there was
something profoundly familiar about her, and it struck me again
now, as she approached me. The way her head and long neck turned
as she slowed her purposeful stride, looking left and then right,
seeing that we were alone in the large room, continuing toward me
self-assuredly. It was that time of day when there were few
people in the library at all, and it was not odd that there would
be no one else in the main reading room. Later on a Wednesday
afternoon, when the town’s west-side high school let out,
business would normally pick up a bit. School was out today,
however, for the start of the Easter break; so for now, it was
just the two of us.

Suddenly, it dawned on me why I had noted the familiarity. In a
sudden moment of clarity, I realized that I actually had seen her
face before: every morning in the mirror. She looked like me.
Well, not exactly like me, of course. She must have been fifteen
years older, in her late thirties, at least, but I thought with a
pang of self doubt, that I could only HOPE to look that good in
another decade and a half. She was much more shapely than I, much
better proportioned. I’m a cow; my breasts much too large for the
rest of my frame, and a constant source of distraction, both to
me and whoever I’m trying to carry on a conversation with. She,
more mature and sure of herself, seemed perfect in body and
spirit. She had my sharp facial features, my eyes and brow. Our
ears were almost identical in size and spacing. But we most
definitely parted company in the hair department. Hers was short,
thick, straight and very, very black; mine was long, curly, and
almost bright red, a strong trait of my ancestry.

“May I help you?” I asked automatically, trying hard not to
stare.

“Yes,” she answered, lyrically. She paused, glancing about her
again. “Are we alone here?”

“Donna’s in the back,” I answered, somehow disappointed that she
might not want to speak to me. “She’s the head librarian. She’s
back in the stacks. Did you want to talk to her instead?”

“Oh, no,” she smiled. “It’s you I want. I have something for
you.”

She produced a single long-stemmed red rose from her purse. It’s
a wonder I hadn’t noticed it before. The stem must have been
protruding at least a foot. The head of the rose was encased in a
clear zip-lock plastic bag, which she removed to thrust the
flower forward, holding it just below my face.

“Oh,” I said, “it’s lov ....” I choked into silence as I
automatically inhaled the rose’s fragrance. It was horrid. There
was a vague rose-like odor underlying a mixture of scents which
included sulfur, alcohol, rotting wood, and several other things
I could not guess at. “Ugh!” I grunted. I tried to back up a
step, but I couldn’t seem to make myself move.

“Smell it again, please,” she said, smiling.

I inhaled again. The smell was almost unbearable. “No, please,” I
whined. “It’s awful!”

“Yes, I know,” she agreed patiently. “It won’t last long, I
promise. Now, once more, please.”

Again I breathed in the rancid fumes, shaking my head slightly,
slowly in the negative.

“That’s wonderful, my dear. Now, look directly into my eyes,
please. Yes, that’s it. Right into my eyes. Yes, perfect. What’s
your name, dear?”

“Molly Mahone,” I answered softly, trying desperately to talk
without inhaling.

“Who’d have guessed I’d finally find you and you’d be Irish,” she
said, wonderingly. “Now Molly, I’m going to say some things, and
I’ll thank you not to interrupt. Just keep looking right into my
eyes, like you’re doing now, and try to keep quiet. Okay? Do you
understand?”

“Yes,” I squeaked.

She began reciting something in a foreign tongue. It took me a
moment to realize that she was speaking in Latin. Each word
seemed to end in “ia” or “um” or “o”.

“I don’t understand Latin,” I said, realizing immediately my
indiscretion. She stopped abruptly. “I never took Latin,” I
muttered in a smaller voice, wishing I could undo the terrible
sin of interruption. “I don’t understand,” I mumbled softly,
tears welling in my eyes.

She gave me a stern look, then a patient almost-smile. “You won’t
interrupt again, will you Molly?”

“No!” I fervently promised, my voice weak and pleading.

She began again, and I at once realized that she was repeating,
once more from the beginning, exactly what she had recited
before. I felt absolutely terrible that I had caused her the
inconvenience of repetition. In contrition, I decided I would
breathe more deeply of the noxious flower being held under my
nose, and I concentrated all my efforts to gaze exactly into the
centers of her beautiful eyes. I wanted desperately to please
her.

Suddenly, it was over. She stopped the recitation, stuffed the
head of the flower back into its plastic bag, wrinkling her nose
as she caught a whiff of her own weapon, sealed the thing up, and
thrust it back into her purse. Then she looked back at me and
smiled. I felt disoriented, to say the least. The whole thing was
very strange to begin with, but the abruptness with which it
ended left me staggered.

“Now, Molly, you did that very well,” she stated. I felt a flush
of bashful accomplishment. I had done something to make her
happy. “When do you take your lunch break, dear?”

“Noon.”

A frown. “Oh, my. That’s almost another two hours.”

“I could trade with Donna,” I blurted. “She won’t mind, I know.
She takes her lunch break at eleven!”

A smile. I felt that wonderful feeling of shy pleasure again.
“That would be wonderful, dear. There’s a cafe right across the
street. I’ll be in a booth in the back. There will be some other
ladies there I want you to meet. Eleven o’clock sharp. Don’t be
late, Molly.” She spun around and walked toward the front door.

“Who are you?” I squeaked, before I could stop myself.

She halted and turned back to me, that awful look of smiling
patience on her lips. A stern teacher placating a slow student. 
“I’m Josephine. You can call me Jo. All my good friends do.” She
turned again and walked out of the library.

Her good friend. I blushed crimson. I don’t think I’d ever been
so happy.

I looked at the clock.  Fifty minutes to go.




I rushed into the Pink Pig diner across the street from the small
downtown library at precisely eleven o’clock. For once, I ignored
the garish porcine decorations that smiled pinkly from every
corner, and spotted Jo seated at a corner booth all the way in
the back. As promised, there were others there, and as I rushed
grinning to meet my new best friend, I drew up short. They were
all alike. Well, once again, not exactly alike, but so alike as
to leave little doubt that they were drawn together by blood. All
dark, all sharply beautiful, all with that intense intelligence
smoldering behind their eyes. And once again, that uneasy
familiarity. They all looked vaguely like me.

I was just regaining my equilibrium and was in the process of
pasting the smile back on my lips, when Jo thrust me right back
into deep confusion by making introductions and playing musical
chairs at the same time. I tried desperately to keep up.

“Molly, I’d like you to meet my sister, Jan,” she said, standing.
Jan stood, too. They all stood. Jan shook my hand, trying to
smile, but she was somehow gawking instead. As she shook, she
sort of pulled me toward the booth. “You sit on the inside, next
to the wall, dear, if you don’t mind,” Jo continued. I slid into
the booth as another black-haired beauty slid in next to me, this
one probably the prettiest (and I guessed, the youngest) of the
group. She gave me a dazzling smile as she took my hand.

“I’m Jean, Molly,” she cooed. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”

Jo had pulled a chair up to the end of the table as Jan slid in
opposite me. The fourth sat beside her, and at first I supposed
her to be Jan’s twin, but I began to notice subtle differences.
Jan was older, I guessed, but not by much. This fourth sister had
a small smattering of freckles on cheeks that were just a little
higher. They dressed alike, though, and I got the impression that
they liked to make people think they might be twins. Sisterly
trickery.

“This is Jill,” Jo completed the introductions. The other three
were studying me intensely.

I couldn’t help but laugh, if for no other reason than to try to
draw attention in some other direction than myself. “Jo, Jill,
Jan and Jean?” I asked with a giggle. But they were not to be
distracted.

“Uncanny,” Jill muttered. “Red hair and a little heavy up top,
but my God! She’s a perfect match!”

Jan was staring at me open-mouthed. “Jo, she’s absolutely
amazing! How in the world did you find her?”

I looked around at the faces without comprehension. Jo looked
smug. Jill and Jan shook their heads in disbelief. “I don’t
understand,” I protested weakly.

“It’s okay, dear,” Jean said softly beside me. “You just remind
us of someone, that’s all.”

“Who?” I asked.

Again, they ignored me. “I’ll tell you about all the legwork
later,” Jo told the assembly. “The important thing is that I DID
find her. Now, our time is limited. Unless Jean relents, we need
to come up with a plan and do it soon. The girl only has an hour
for lunch.”

As if on cue, a waiter in a grimy apron appeared. I hadn’t seen
him coming, since I was facing the wall in the last booth of the
diner.

“Nothing for her right now,” Jo said, waving him away. “We’ll
order in awhile.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the waiter said, actually bowing and backing away.
I felt a little disappointed, and not a little hungry.

“I’m not about to back down,” Jean said, continuing the
conversation. “We are not going to turn Black now, and what
you’re proposing for this innocent is about as Black as it
comes!”

“How do you know she’s an innocent?” Jan asked. I looked at her,
dumbfounded.

“Black side, White side! You sound like a Star Wars movie!” Jill
interjected. “Can’t magic be Gray?”

“We don’t have time for this!” Jo snapped. “We have to get her
back! We only have an hour to figure out a strategy! We’re
obviously not going to change Jean’s mind, and we can’t do
anything unless we act together. Now, I need some ideas!”

“I don’t understand,” I said, trying to break into the strange
conversation.

“Dear, I need you to be quiet and let us talk, please,” Jo said
sternly. I felt terrible. I couldn’t believe I’d interrupted her
again. Not even answering, I simply nodded, put my hands in my
lap, and lowered my eyes, which were threatening to overflow.

“Jean, what you’re proposing is insanity. It hasn’t been tried
for hundreds of years, and even then it wasn’t successful,” Jill
said pleadingly across the table to her headstrong younger
sister.

“You’d sacrifice the life of your sister?” Jan hissed.

“I don’t want to sacrifice anybody!” Jean said levelly.

“Ladies!” Jo said as loudly as she dared in the public place.

“Okay, okay,” Jill conceded. She paused, thinking. “It’s going to
have to be some sort of exotic fantasy, of course. Something
sexual. If it comes from her own background, it would be best.”
She looked across at me, and I looked up into her eyes, sensing a
coming question. “Are you involved with someone, Molly?”

“What?”

“Do you have a lover?”

I flushed. Who did she think she was? “That’s none of your
business!”

“Molly!” Jo chided.

My head snapped around toward her. “Oh!” I exclaimed contritely.
“No,” I lowered my gaze, blushing. “I’m not seeing anyone right
now. Not ... for a long time....”

“Molly, I want you to look at Jill, please,” Jo said. I complied
immediately. “She’s going to say something, and when she’s
through, I want you to say ‘As with Jo, so with Jill.’ Do you
understand?”

Of course I didn’t, but I nodded. Jo handed Jill a 3X5 card with
some writing on it, which Jill studied for a moment, then read
several words in Latin. When she finished, she looked up at me so
I could gaze into her eyes. “As with Jo, so with Jill,” I
recited. I didn’t feel anything. A little foolish, perhaps.

“And now Jan,” Jo instructed, as Jill handed the card to the
raven-haired sister beside her. “When she finishes, you’ll say
‘As with Jo, so with Jan,” okay?”

I nodded, turned my eyes to Jan, and went through the little
ritual again. When we were finished, I turned without being
asked, and stared into Jean’s dark eyes. She smiled, ignored the
card, and recited the words. “As with Jo, so with Jean,” I said
clearly. Jean’s soft smile was my reward.

“Are you a virgin?” Jill asked, without preamble.

I turned back to face her and blushed furiously. “No,” I
whispered.

“When did you first make love?” she continued cruelly.

“In college. Toward the end of my junior year. About two years
ago.” I couldn’t force myself to meet their gazes. I looked down
at the table helplessly.

“Tell us about it.”

“Oh, no!” I pleaded. “Oh, please! It’s really embarrassing.
Please?” I looked frantically around the table.

Jean patted me on the leg. “Go ahead, dear. Just tell us. It’s
okay,” she assured.

I looked back down. This was terrible. I’d spent two years trying
to forget this.  “It was during Spring break,” I started weakly.

“Speak up, please,” Jo chided.

“Everybody was leaving for Spring break,” I said, only a little
stronger. “My dorm was going to have the floors redone, so we all
had to be out. Everybody else was going home, but my folks were
in Europe, so I didn’t really have anyplace to go.

“My roommate, Gail ...  She was always trying to get me to do
crazy things. She’d gotten me started on birth control pills,
even though I wasn’t seeing anybody. She convinced me it would
make my periods easier. Then she kept fixing me up with guys, and
“suggesting” that I should go all the way. She was always pushing
me in that direction.

“Anyway, the day we were all finishing up our mid-terms and
packing to leave, she came into the room and told me there was
this guy I just had to meet. He wasn’t even a student there, but
he was house-sitting for a Prof. All excited like, she drug me
downstairs to meet this guy. He was waiting in the coffee house
across from the dorm. And right away, I fell for him. Hard. He
said he was a poet. No kidding. That’s what he did. He said he
worked odd jobs, wrote at night, and had actually gotten a few
things published. He was working on a book, but needed a new
agent, he said.

“He wanted to go get something to eat, and I said I couldn’t;
that I had to pack and find a motel. But he insisted and said
there’d be plenty of time that night. We ate burgers and he read
some of his poems to me. I thought they were really good. We
talked for a couple hours - there, and later as we walked through
the park. He wanted to get a beer, and we wound up in a little
bar. I didn’t like to drink much, but he said there was a special
drink he wanted to make me. He left me in a booth while he talked
to the bartender, and when he came back, he gave me a drink that
tasted a lot like lemonade. Well, the more of it I drank, the
more drunk I felt, even though it was just that one glass. By the
time we left, I could hardly walk.

“He had his arm around me, and I leaned against him and giggled
almost continuously. I had no idea where he was taking me, but I
just let him lead me, and of course, we wound up at this house he
was staying at. As he was unlocking the door, I said ‘You’re
trying to seduce me!’ and he said ‘Trying, hell! I’m doing it!’
and I stopped giggling and thought: I can’t resist him! He’s
really going to do it! This is it! I’m not going to be a virgin
anymore!

“And then I just stood there as he finished unlocking the door.
He took my hand and I let him lead me inside. As soon as we were
in, he spun me around and kissed me. Kissed me hard. I didn’t
know what to do with my hands. I put them awkwardly on his arms,
but he reached up and grabbed my wrists and lifted my hands up
and around his neck. I left them there, and his hands roamed up
and down my back as we kissed again, then my sides, and then my
back again. As if by magic, the clasp of my bra let go. He put
his tongue in my mouth, and I moaned. When one of his hands found
my breast, my knees buckled. He laughed, then scooped me up as if
I were Scarlet O’Hara and carried me off to the bedroom. I just
buried my face in his shoulder, my arms still around his neck
where he’d put them. I felt really weird; very drunk, and yet
amazingly aware of what was happening to me. And God, I was
turned on!

“I was only wearing a tee-shirt and shorts, and as soon as he put
me back down, still shaky on my feet with my arms around his
neck, he grabbed the lower part of my shirt, and in one easy
movement I was naked above the waist. As the shirt and bra came
free, I tried to lower my arms to cover myself, but again he
grabbed my wrists and put them back around his neck. His hands
moved over my body like his pen moved across a page; I was one of
his compositions. He paid special attention to my breasts, which
he’d been staring at all afternoon.  His hands moved lower, and
the snap of my shorts came undone. He was kissing me again, then
a zip and a tug, and I was totally bare except for the sandals,
which he took care of after he picked me up and threw me on my
back on the bed.

“Then he was all over me! Touching and petting and licking and
sucking and pinching and nibbling. The room seemed to be
spinning, but I could feel everything! Everything he did! I
gasped and moaned and tried to tell him that I hadn’t done this
before, that I wanted it to be good for him, to be special. I
mumbled and groaned and stammered, and was really surprised when
I found myself with my legs over his shoulders, his arms wrapped
around the outside of my legs, his hands pinching and squeezing
my nipples, and his tongue lapping wildly between my legs. No one
had ever done that before. I’d never even been touched down there
by anyone except – except – well ... me; and this feeling was an
amazingly new experience. The orgasm hit me without warning. I
didn’t even feel it coming. I think I might have screamed.

“I was shaking, and the room was spinning, and I was still coming
a little, and suddenly he was on top of me. Somehow, he was
naked, but I didn’t know when he’d taken off his clothes. I only
know that his bare chest was against mine and that this was yet
another new sensation. I tried to tell him again that I didn’t
know what to do, since I’d never done this before, but I couldn’t
seem to make my mouth work.  I suddenly realized that he was
pushing his cock into me. I tried to focus, tried to preserve
this moment in my memory, but when I put my hands back around his
neck (I don’t remember what I’d done with them in the meantime),
he grabbed my wrists again and held them over my head. I was
experiencing such a jumbled mix of feelings; my hands trapped;
his body pushing down on mine; a vague disappointment that there
was no pain; a new and alarmingly good feeling of being totally
overpowered and helpless; that amazing slippery, filling feeling
in a place that had never been filled before.

“And then he stiffened and groaned, and it was over. We lay like
that for I don’t know how long. Gradually, our breathing slowed,
but he didn’t get off of me, and he kept a firm grip on my
wrists. The bed seemed to be moving as if we were on a ship at
sea. Eventually, he let go of me, rolled off the bed, and padded
off into some other room. The bed continued to rock and roll, or
so it seemed to me, though I didn’t move an inch, my arms still
over my head where he’d left them. I felt very awake and very
alive and very much in love. I told myself that I’d do anything
for him. This was put to the test a moment later, when he sat me
up and handed me a glass of clear liquid and told me to drink it.
I told him I wasn’t thirsty, but he said ‘Drink it. Drink it
all,’ and I did, just like that. When I was finished, he put the
empty glass on the bedside table, crawled back into bed, and
gathered me into his arms. I nestled into his chest and tried to
tell him what I was feeling, but he shushed me, and suddenly I
was asleep. I woke up about noon the next day.”

I looked around the table at the four dark sisters. “That was
it,” I said weakly. “That was the first time.”

They all looked a bit flushed, but certainly not as red as I
felt. Eventually, Jean asked “What happened to the relationship?
How long did it last?”

“Only a week,” I answered, tears coming to my eyes and one
trickling down my left cheek. “It was all a trick, really. He
used me.”

“Tell us,” Jean urged.

“But briefly, dear,” Jo said, glancing at her watch. “Abbreviate
a bit.”

“The next day, he tied my hands to the headboard as soon as I
woke up and made love to me again. It hurt a little, this time,
but after he’d come inside me, he lay next to me and stroked me
with his fingers until I came again, too. He kept telling me that
I was a natural submissive, and he said he loved that about me.

“I couldn’t believe that the dorm had closed and I hadn’t gotten
any of my things, but he said I wouldn’t need anything. When he
untied me and let me get up and use the bathroom, I noticed that
only my tee-shirt and shorts were still around. He’d thrown away
my bra and panties.

“He fixed me a sandwich and chips and a diet Coke for lunch, but
as soon as I’d finished, I started feeling drunk again. That was
honestly the first time I’d even thought that he might be giving
me some sort of drug. He stripped me and tied my hands behind my
back, then he started doing everything for me. He bathed me,
gently, soaping me, rinsing, touching, stroking. Then he washed
my hair, and dried it, and brushed it for what seemed to be
hours. After a salad for dinner, during which he kept me tied, he
sat me on a stool while he washed the dishes. He began kissing me
again, then touched me and kept me on the verge of an orgasm
forever. Then finally he took me brutally, and only then made me
come. Again, he gave me a glass of what appeared to be water, and
I fell asleep right away.

“The next day, he took me shopping at the mall and bought me a
slinky halter-top dress at Frederick’s and some high-heeled shoes
that made me look like a real slut. But I felt like that way
anyway, wearing just a tee-shirt with no bra. I couldn’t hide
THESE! They shake around a lot when I don’t wear any support.
Then he took me home and tied me up again. This time, when he
brought me one of his “special” drinks, I pleaded with him,
telling him I didn’t need drugs to love him. He told me that if I
really felt that way about him, I wouldn’t argue. So I drank it.
The world just seemed to spin away, again. I was in some other
type of place, a place where I could feel everything, but where
every type of self control seemed to allude me. He bathed me
again, and this time he took a disposable razor and shaved me.
But he didn’t stop with my legs and underarms. He shaved me bare
between my legs. Then he took me to bed, and tied me
spread-eagle, and touched me, and licked me, and I came SO hard!
And then he took me rough! He could be so very rough!

“The next day, he kept me tied to a chair while he worked on his
manuscripts. He only let me up to use the bathroom. He fed me,
and again bathed me and did my hair. Then he dressed me up in the
new halter dress and shoes and took me out. It was to a party,
and I just sort of hung around while he talked and mingled with
some other guys. About an hour after we’d arrived, he told me to
get my purse from the room where they’d put all the hats and
coats and then meet him upstairs. He was with half a dozen other
guys when I got up there, and he took the purse and opened it,
taking out one of several little glass vials that he must have
put in before we’d left the house. He poured the contents into a
glass of cola, handed it to me, and told me to drink it. When I
hesitated, he gave me a real stern look, so I did as he asked. I
felt the old feeling almost immediately. He told the other men to
ask me some questions, and they started asking me some really
lewd things. At first, I refused to even comment, but soon I was
giggling uncontrollably. Then he really surprised me by taking my
hands and tying them in front of me, then looping the other end
of the rope around a hook for a plant hanger in the ceiling. He
kissed me hard, and I responded as I always did. He ran his hands
over my body, and really shocked me when he untied the halter and
peeled the dress down my body. The other men began fondling me. I
resisted for a few minutes, but I felt so weak and helpless, and
SO out of control! They kissed me and petted me. One guy was
rubbing me with constant, repetitive strokes between my legs, and
I came all in a rush. I heard a zipper, then felt a cock, a big
cock, bigger than the only other one I’d ever had, pushing inside
me. I couldn’t believe it was happening to me. They took me. All
of them. When it was over, my lover led me out of the house, my
hands still tied in front of me, and drove me home. My purse was
full of money from the drugs he’d sold.

“It went on like that for the rest of the week. I was bound every
day. High every day. Every night, a little glass of clear liquid,
and oblivion. Another party on the weekend ended with another
orgy, and another huge wad of cash in my purse.

“And then one day, it was over. It was just ... over. I woke up,
and my hands weren’t tied anymore. And he wasn’t there anymore. 
The house held no clue that it had ever happened, except for the
dress and shoes, my shorts and tee-shirt (no bra or panties), and
a note in his handwriting, unsigned, that simply said ‘Be out by
noon.’ The dorm had opened that day, so I went there and cried
and cried, and tried to make sense of it all. But I had stomach
cramps so bad by that night, that I had to check myself into the
campus hospital. I had them test me for diseases, which blessedly
all came back negative, but I tested positive for cocaine,
opiates, LSD, and some sort of hypnotic. I was in there for a
week; ‘drying out,’ they said. I never heard from him again. I
never even tried looking.

 “I haven’t made love since; haven’t even dated.” Tears were
streaming down both my cheeks now. “I’ve never told anyone about
this,” I finished weakly.

“You haven’t made love for two years?” Jan said incredulously.

My voice finally broke. “No!” I sobbed. Jean put an arm around me
consolingly and patted my hand as if I were a little girl in need
of comfort.

“Can we use any of that?” Jan asked, turning to Jill.

She thought a moment. “Some of it, sure. But we need something
current, something like a fantasy.” She looked across at me, and
I flinched, dreading the coming question.

“You do have fantasies, don’t you, Molly? Do you masturbate?”

I seized Jean’s hand and turned to her. She seemed much more
compassionate, much more understanding than any of her siblings.
“Oh God, no!” I protested. “Oh, please! Please don’t make me tell
about that!”

Jean shushed me with a whisper. She brushed a few strands of red
hair away from my forehead and placated me gently. “Don’t be
silly, now, Molly. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but this is
for your own good. You know that you don’t have a choice, that
you have to do as we say. Don’t you? Okay, stop crying. That’s
it. Take a deep breath, now, love. That’s it. Now another one.
Feel better? Now, tell us what we want to know.”

I took a shuddering breath, lowered my eyes back to the table,
and began again. “I have a rape fantasy. It’s not that uncommon;
I’ve read several articles about it in the psychology section.
Most of them say it isn’t really harmful, as long as I know the
difference between fantasy and reality. I realize it probably
stems from my ... my ... experience at college. I can’t seem to
keep from thinking about it sometimes. I’ve been trying to limit
how much I’ve been doing it, though. I know this seems really ...
strange, but I try to save those thoughts for the weekends.
Lately, though, it’s gotten a little more serious; a little out
of control, I guess.

“Shortly after I started working at the library, I walked into
one of the upstairs study rooms and surprised a bunch of Junior
High School boys who were talking loudly, and laughing and
giggling. They all grabbed their books and fled, as if they were
doing something really bad, but I couldn’t see any evidence of
it. There were a bunch of magazines scattered on the table, Life,
Look, Time, and some others, and I started collecting them to
take back to the main reading room. But one of them felt too
heavy, and sure enough, there was another magazine inside it; a
dirty magazine. A really dirty magazine. I didn’t even know such
things existed. The cover showed ... well, everything! You know,
both male and female. And it was evident that the girl on the
cover was being raped! The guy was holding a knife. There are
always publications in the library that we’re throwing away, and
we can take them home, if we want. I slipped the nasty magazine
inside another one, a throw-away, and I took it home with me that
night. Well, since then, I’ve sort of developed this routine.

“On Fridays, I close up the library by myself at seven o’clock.
There’s this little grocery store, just a block from here. I stop
in there and buy the fixings for a salad for dinner, and
something for the rest of the weekend (I don’t work again until
Monday), and a bottle of chilled white wine. I live a block
behind the grocery, but instead of walking around the block,
recently I’ve been cutting through the alley that runs beside it
to my street. You see, there was a rape in that alley about six
months ago. They never caught the guy, and I ... well, I ... I
guess that ... like I said, things are getting a little out of
control with my fantasy. And, anyway, when I get to the other end
of the alley, I just cross the street and my house is right
there. I go in, and put the groceries away, and make my salad. I
have this special wine glass; special because I can get exactly
six glasses of wine from a bottle. I pour one, and sip it as I
have my bath, and all the time, I’m thinking about how I felt
while I was walking down that dark alley.

“When I’m through with the bath, I put on this silk bathrobe,
with nothing else underneath; then I pour a second glass of wine
and eat my salad while I watch the news. Then I take my third
glass into the living room and take out the magazine. I have it
memorized by now, of course, but I still force myself to look at
it slowly, picture by picture, page by page. It doesn’t have any
words at all; it’s just sort of a story in pictures; very, very
explicit pictures. In the story, a guy with a knife pushes a
woman into her house as she’s unlocking the front door. He forces
her to strip, then makes her take his clothes off, too. He
touches her all over, licks her, suckles her, and then finally,
he does it to her. You know ... he … he fucks her. Eventually,
she is overcome by what he’s doing to her, and she becomes a
willing participant, holding him, helping him. She even sucks on
him. I realize that those are just models in the pictures, that
they’re just acting out the rape, but there’s no denying that
they’re really fucking. I mean, it shows it, you know? And he
really comes inside her, because it shows pictures of it dripping
down her thighs after he’s through. But I pretend it’s real, that
he’s really raping her ... raping me. As I look at it, I start
touching myself, but I won’t let myself cum. I wait until I
finish the magazine and the glass of wine, and I go to bed. Then
I remember it all again; the walk home down the alley, the
magazine, the way I feel as I touch myself, and I keep myself
right on the edge for a long, long time. And then, finally, I
make myself cum. I always go right to sleep after that.

“I clean house on Saturday, but I take out the magazine again
that night after dinner, while I have the other three glasses of
wine from the bottle. And it always ends the same way, making
myself cum so hard that I almost pass out.” I was crying again.
“And that’s all until the next Friday. I try hard not to think
about it again until then; but sometimes, at night during the
week, I just can’t help myself. It’s been happening a lot more,
recently.”

I fell silent. There was nothing else to say. I felt drained.
These women knew everything about me now. Everything.

“Now, THAT we can use!” Jill said.

They were silent, flushed and thinking for several long moments,
then Jan and Jill started talking at once. They were very excited
all of a sudden, not about the sex, really, but about this
strange “plan” of theirs.

Jo broke in to restore order at the table. “We only have 15
minutes before she has to be back,” she declared. She turned to
me. “Molly, you feel sleepy,” she told me flatly.

“What?”

“You’re tired,” she said, making a firm statement of it. “All
this emotional testimony has really drained you. You’re really
quite exhausted. I want you to rest your head against the wall
and close your eyes for a few minutes. It will refresh you.
You’ll take a little nap, and we’ll wake you up when it’s time to
go, so you won’t be late.”

I didn’t want to displease her again, so I did as she asked. How
could she have known how drowsy I’d become? She was really very
perceptive. As soon as I shut my eyes, I felt sleep engulf me. I
could vaguely hear the four sisters talking and arguing, but it
didn’t really matter to me, since I was asleep. I can remember
talking in my sleep, answering questions; but I have no
recollection of what they said or of what I said in return. It
was all a strange dream.

Jean gently shook me awake. “Molly, I have something really
important to tell you,” she said seriously. I turned to face her
fully, and tried to pay attention. “Just look right into my eyes
as I tell you this, so you’ll know it’s true,” she continued.
“Everything that’s happened here at lunch today, everything
you’ve told us and everything you’ve heard, it’s all unimportant.
None of it is important in the least. I know you enjoyed meeting
us, but besides that, there’s really no reason at all to dwell on
any of it. No reason to remember. No reason to give it any
thought whatsoever. That way, you can just feel happy about
getting to know us, and that’s the only feeling you’ll have about
this lunch. Isn’t that nice?”

I had to agree. I really was happy to have met them, and I
readily told them so.  Sitting on the table before me was a
grilled chicken Caesar salad in one of those Styrofoam carry-out
things. Jean got up to let me out and really surprised me by
giving me a hug and a little kiss on the cheek. I thanked them
again for lunch, gave them a genuine smile and, clutching my
salad, I left. I had had a remarkably pleasant lunch break.

The truth of the matter was that I absolutely adored them all.

