Character Flaw

By Orestes

orestesw@yahoo.com
ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/Orestes

***


   To say that I struggle with my writing is an 
understatement. I battle. I fight. I wrestle my characters 
to the ground. 

   It's a hobby, thank god. If I did this for a living, I'd 
go nuts. Sometimes I think I'm already half way there.

   For a living, I work mostly with people who consistently 
disappoint me. Cindy. Mark. Barbara. They're always letting 
me down. But I'll tell you more about that later. First, I 
wanted to tell you about my stories, and the way I have to 
armwrestle with my characters over every little thing.

   It's my own damned fault, of course. In a way, it's a 
little flattering. If I were writing characters without any 
substance, I'd never have this problem. As it is, I spend 
all sorts of time getting to know my characters before I 
even decide on the plot of the story. I imagine them in 
different settings, doing normal everyday things, and I get 
to know their little character flaws.

   Denise was the one who gave me my education on character 
flaws. I'll tell you more about her later too. 

   What she taught me, though, can't wait. You see, she 
taught me to look at people in terms of their strengths, but 
especially in terms of their weaknesses. Insecurity is a big 
one. 

   That was Becky's weakness. No matter how successful she 
became, she somehow just couldn't believe that she was 
entitled. In some small way, she was always afraid that she 
would lose it all. I could see it in the way she saved her 
money. She was almost compulsive about it.

   Sorry I'm throwing so many names at you at once. I'll try 
to slow it down a bit. It's just that when I talk about my 
writing, I always get a little ahead of myself.

   The truth is, her name wasn't really Becky. When I first 
imagined her, she was firmly a Rebecca, and steadfastly 
refused to bend towards my will. She just didn't much like 
the shortened version of her name.

   And it shouldn't have surprised me, because she was so 
intent on projecting a professional image. 

   Which goes back to her insecurity. I had a lot of trouble 
convincing her to spend a little money and change her image. 
She was worried about money... a lot.

   But like Denise taught me, these insecurities run deep, 
and can affect a person in an unexpected way. And she should 
know. She was the psychiatrist. At the top of her field, 
really. 

   So I decided that Rebecca's insecurities, instead of 
being an unattractive quality, could be used to make her see 
things my way. I didn't figure it was too much of a stretch 
to make Becky begin to worry that she couldn't continue to 
be successful unless she dressed up a bit. You know... used 
her attractiveness to her advantage.

   It worked, of course. As soon as I had her worried that 
one of her female co-workers would be promoted ahead of her, 
she withdrew some money from her bank account and bought 
some clothing to draw more attention.

   Myself being the master of this fictional universe, I was 
happy to reward Becky with increased sales, and more 
attention from her male co-workers. This is actually the 
part of the story I always like best. Sure, it's fun to 
later see my character betrayed by the fates. I love to see 
them sink to deeper levels of depravity and immorality.

   But the part I always like best is that first little 
concession they make to their fatal character flaw, before 
it takes control. This is where I have to work hard to keep 
the character doing what I want her to, against all of her 
good sense. This is where I make the changes that later come 
back to add the heat of humiliation to the sex.

   Well, that's what I write, after all. I write about sex, 
and power, and character flaws, and they all fit together so 
nicely that it's hard to know which topic caught my 
imagination first. 

   Becky. Not Rebecca, I told her. I made her think about it 
a lot. It was the way it sounded. Becky Suedel rolled off of 
the tongue so much more nicely than Rebecca. It was a good 
professional name. People would remember her more easily. It 
would be a good career move.

   She hated it so much. She thought it was diminutive (her 
words, not mine).

   In truth, I don't think anyone would have thought 
anything about it, if she didn't react to it so much. But 
she did. She hated the way her secretary said it. She cursed 
herself for ever telling the young woman, "call me Becky. " 
And people noticed the way she hated the new name, and they 
probably thought she was a little silly for taking it... not 
because it was a silly name, mind you. I still like it a lot 
better. They just thought she was silly for telling people 
to call her a name that she didn't much like. 
 
   I wasn't quite ready to start her descent yet, and she 
still had some fight in her. She resisted my taste in 
clothing. She fought the way I made her flirt with her boss. 
She resented the way that I made her lease a more expensive 
car, to keep up her image.

   It all worked to her advantage of course. I gave her a 
promotion and a big raise, just to muscle her along the way 
to her downfall.

   The problem is, and Denise would be the first to agree 
with me on this, success isn't enough to conquer insecurity. 
Sometimes, it just makes things worse. Kind of a stupid 
little paradox, isn't it ?

   When the promotion to sales manager came, poor Becky was 
filled with doubts about her abilities. She was sure that 
she would fall victim to the Peter principal. You know, the 
one that says that people rise to the level of their own 
incompetence. It's so goddamned true, too. The people I work 
with in real life prove it to me all of the time. Cindy, 
Mark, Barbara... but I digress...

   In reality, Becky was quite capable of handling the sales 
in her department, but she worried a lot about it, 
especially since she had spent so much money upgrading her 
image that she really needed to hold onto this raise just to 
keep pace.

   That's when I gave her a secret weapon over the other 
department managers. I gave her a way to motivate her sales 
staff that they couldn't compete with. 

   When Becky first thought about it, she was ashamed that 
it even occurred to her. When she started doing it, and it 
was working, she felt even worse. Shame is one of my 
favourite tools from my big ol' toolbox. I love to watch it 
twist around unexpectedly on my characters. Every time I 
made her think about it, I gave her a little sexual rush 
that made her hands tremble.

   I think that's when the people around the office began to 
look at her differently. I mean, the guys had always given 
her a fair share of attention, but these days, with thoughts 
of the secret weapon simmering in her head, she found 
herself reacting to their flirtations.

   A little blush. A little dance in her stomach.

   It was almost more than she could take. I was patient, of 
course. I could go on this way for weeks, giving her 
daydreams. Fuelling her insecurity. Making her spend money 
upgrading her image faster than she could earn it. I could 
see her anxiety growing.

   Then, in a scene that I had anticipated since near the 
beginning, she allowed herself a moment of weakness. You 
see, at the end of every week, the company rewarded the top 
salesperson in each department with a bonus cheque. It was 
Becky's job to use the bonus as a motivational tool.

   It was important to make a big deal out of it. Becky 
would take the top salesperson out for a casual lunch. She 
would buy him wine, and talk about his hobbies, and flirt 
with him a bit. It was this last tactic that was giving her 
the butterflies. The guys liked the idea of going out for a 
nice lunch with a beautiful woman, who just happened to be 
his boss, and seeing her fall all over herself to make him 
feel like a winner. It worked like magic.

   Sometimes, she would bend forward a bit, and let one of 
the guys see down her blouse a bit. I made sure that she 
wore a sexy bra on those days. It always made her blush when 
she noticed his attention, but she stayed in position a 
moment longer anyhow, just to make sure he got a good look.

   She didn't want to think about how far she would go with 
this game. It seemed to go further every time. A little more 
cleavage. A little more wine. A hand on her ass as he walked 
her back to the car. Alan Johnson bending her over the desk 
in her office, and fucking her from behind.

   And it was as natural as all that. Yeah, I guess it's all 
a little contrived, but I hope you can forgive me. It's a 
sex story, after all, and I really wanted to get to the 
juicy parts. Then I could go on to write the emotional 
aftermath of this lapse of judgements. Shame. Humiliation. 
Anxiety.

   But I wouldn't let her step backwards. Not a bit. That 
wouldn't do. After she had finally allowed her naughty 
thoughts to come to reality, and unleashed her secret weapon 
to improve sales in her department, things really heated up. 
What had begun with a single indiscretion, and Alan Johnson 
pumping his semen into her while she squealed her approval, 
repeated itself in various forms each week.

   Fred Brauer, a frequent winner of the weekly prize, liked 
to sit back in Becky's big leather chair, and let her do the 
work. He liked to play with her tits while she bounced, and 
hold her by the hips to control her pace when he was ready 
to cum. 

   It was a horrible idea, of course. Anyone rational would 
know that. Becky knew it too. She hated the impulses that 
had guided into this position, and the insecurities about 
her abilities that kept her from calling an end to it. 

   The fact was, sales had never been better. The whole 
staff was motivated. Becky was getting attention from upper 
management because her department was showing such a 
dramatic improvement. If she could just keep it up for a 
while longer, she would definitely be given another 
promotion.

   And a raise, she hoped. She needed the money.

   Then she could leave all of this humiliation behind.

   But it was hard to walk through the office anymore. There 
was an energy in the place, and Becky was the centre of it. 
Everyone wanted to win top sales, and Becky was the prize. 
It was hard to keep any semblance of authority.

   Eventually, most everyone won the prize. It was just a 
matter of one good week. Tom. Stephen. Paul. Amy. Yes, even 
Amy. If you'll recall, she's the female employee who I had 
given Becky such insecurity about before she got her 
promotion. 

   I don't mind going into the details on that one. Becky 
spent the whole morning dreading the coming lunch. She added 
up the numbers a second and a third time, hoping that the 
results would change. The unofficial tally around the office 
had Fred and Amy pretty close to tied. Everyone was just 
waiting for Becky to come out and invite one of them to 
lunch. 

   When it turned out to be Amy, I don't have to tell you 
that it got everyone talking. 

   " Let me drive, " was Amy's only reaction. She made Becky 
fish out the keys for the Lexus right in front of everyone. 
It was humiliating, considering the long standing rivalry 
between the two women.

   Now, I'll admit, it seems like Amy is being a little 
aggressive about this. A real woman might feel weird about 
it, or refuse to go along with it. She might be a little 
nervous about the lesbian sex. 

   I'll remind you, this is a sex story, and at this point, 
all I want to see is the exchange of power between the 
characters, and the utter humiliation of Becky. If I needed 
to nudge Amy away from some of her natural aversions to 
achieve this end, I'll chalk it up to dramatic license.

   " I want to see you flirt with me the way you do with the 
other guys, " Amy told her boss. " I want you to show me all 
the moves that earned you a promotion. "

    With a flush of shame, Becky went through the motions. 
She bent forward and let the saleswoman look down her 
blouse. She applied her lipstick slowly, the way all the 
guys liked. She swallowed her wine a little too anxiously, 
perhaps hoping that a little buzz would help her through the 
inevitable scene back at the office.

   As it turned out, Amy didn't wait long enough to get back 
to the office. The spectacle of seeing her boss humiliate 
herself at the dinner table made Amy anxious to close the 
deal.

   A few minutes later, Becky was on her knees in the 
restaurant washroom, thanking god that the door had a lock 
on it, and watching Amy empty her bladder before demanding 
the sexual relief she was entitled to. When she was done 
peeing, she simply slid forward on the toilet seat, allowing 
Becky to contend with the glistening droplets of piss that 
stood in the way of her task. 

   Amy enjoyed the feeling of a female tongue buried in her 
crotch, but mostly, she seemed to enjoy hurling verbal abuse 
at her boss, who was now brought down to the same level as 
the toilet bowl she was resting her chin against. 

   She played against all of Becky's insecurities. I'll 
admit to a role in that. I fed the words to her while the 
first hints of orgasm floated through her belly.

   " Useless cunt... you don't deserve your job... the only 
thing you're competent at is getting fucked in the ass by 
Stephen Underwood... I always knew that you were a worthless 
whore..."

   God, I love those little details. Even if they don't flow 
quite naturally from the story, I get a kick out of them. 
There was an expression I heard once, " The devil's in the 
details. "

   And Becky is learning all of the fine details of sexual 
humiliation. Just last week, Becky had time to take in all 
of the fine details, when Philip Frost finally took his turn 
in the manager's office. It was an absurd scene. Inspired by 
scenes from his favourite porno movies, Philip had decided 
that, after letting Becky suck his cock for a while, he 
wanted to cum on her face. 

   So Becky was treated to the glory of watching a middle 
aged man contort his face while he stood above her, jerking 
himself off for the grand finale. While she waited for his 
body to catch up with his intentions, she had time to notice 
all of the little imperfections of this man. She saw the red 
impressions his glasses had left on the bridge of his nose. 
She picked out a stain on the portion of his shirt that was 
usually tucked in.

   She smelled onion on his hands, no doubt from the burger 
he had eaten at lunch. 

   And, seeing this scene, she would normally be amused by 
how pathetic Philip looked, grunting with impatience to cum. 
Despite his arousal, he was having some trouble coming to an 
orgasm. Maybe it was nerves. It would have been very amusing 
indeed, if she weren't the stupid whore who was holding her 
tongue out to the tip of his prick, and massaging her 
breasts to give him an arousing little show.

   Becky was thoroughly not aroused by this man. I mean, I 
gave her a little tingle of arousal in response to the 
degradation of it all, but mostly, I just made her reflect 
again on why she was doing this. I made her think about the 
reason why she was humouring this man, and grovelling at the 
level of his cock, pretending to be hungry for the feeling 
of his sperm on her face. 

   Every week there was another reason why she needed the 
extra money. There was the fitness club membership. There 
was the surprisingly expensive hairdresser she had chosen to 
go to. And, of course, there would soon be payments for the 
breast implants that she was getting. Yes, it was all quite 
expensive, keeping up the image of success that would keep 
her in line for a promotion.

   I haven't decided what to do when stories about her 
antics reach upper management. Maybe Mr. Riley, who breeds 
Labrador Retrievers, will have a few ideas. I don't know. I 
have some time before I go that far with it.

   Call it a work in progress. One of several. Too many, 
really.

   My real life goes on. Another work in progress, and 
sometimes even more incredible than the stories I spin.

   For instance, the other day, while I was having coffee, 
and doing a bit of daydreaming, my sister walked right over 
to my table. 

   What makes this odd, I guess, is that my sister has been 
dead for nearly ten years.

   It was one of those little episodes that made me wish 
that Denise was still around to give me her perspective. She 
always told me not to be so concerned about when reality 
doesn't seem to quite add up. When I had first started 
seeing her, something like this would have really rattled 
me. I would have spent weeks trying to figure out the 
inconsistency. Denise would have told me about the frailties 
of the human mind, and not to worry about it so much. I'm 
sure of it.

   So, on the advice of my former psychoanalyst, I took the 
appearance of my dead sister with a grain of salt.

   " How're things, Jay ? " she asked me.

   " Um... fine, " I told her. " Say Anne, didn't you die a 
while back ?"

   " I guess that would explain a few things. "

   She was so nonchalant about it, that I wouldn't have felt 
right making a fuss. It would have been impolite or 
something.

   I suppose that I should explain a bit of it to you, 
though, since you don't know the story. When I was a kid, 
and my fantasy life was a little less disciplined than it is 
right now, I used to think about my sister a lot. I don't 
suppose there's anything abnormal about it. She had the room 
right next to mine, and was only a couple of years older 
than me, and she was pretty cute too.

   Anyhow, I guess I must have been reading some stories on 
the internet. That's where I got some of my early ideas. 
That's where I became a little obsessed with bondage. Hell, 
it was like a smorgasbord for me back then, a bondage was 
just my favourite cuisine at the time. Chicken a la Parker ! 

   My fantasies about Anne went that direction. Strangely 
enough, I think I had some intuition that these kinky 
fantasies weren't all fiction. I mean, Anne developed a 
taste for gothic attire soon afterwards, and began hanging 
out with friends who all seemed to be looking for the next 
big thrill.

   When I was in my room jerking off at night, I knew that 
Anne was sneaking out her bedroom window. I could almost 
picture every moment of her evening as she joined up with 
her new friends, and began to experiment with tying each 
other up, and spanking each other, and forced sex acts.

   It was all pretty coincidental, really. When I imagined 
that she was being anally raped by her new friends at night, 
I could see Anne having difficulty walking the next day. 
When I imagined that she spent the night being whipped until 
her back was raw, I could hear her cursing the sting of the 
water in the shower the next morning. It was a weird 
symmetry between my fantasies, and Anne's reality that made 
me feel almost guilty when I saw her suffering from a lack 
of sleep, and a battered body.

   But I didn't slow down, and neither did she. I began 
writing my fantasies down. I began drawing pictures. The 
more extreme my appetites, it seemed, the deeper my sister 
delved into her night time activities. 

   Then, when she went too far with a game of asphyxiation, 
I knew before the morning came that she wouldn't be coming 
home.

   That's was when my parents sent me to see Denise. They 
found my writings, and my pictures, and all of the bondage-
related pornography that I had collected on my computer. 
They made the assumption that Anne had been telling me about 
her lifestyle, and making me write the details down as a 
journal for her. They were concerned about me. I tried to 
convince them that it was all a coincidence, but they 
wouldn't believe me.

   They thought I was involved. And on the face of it, I 
guess it really seemed that way. The stories, I later found 
out, exactly mirrored the accounts of her friends. The 
pictures were crude, but they captured scenes that had 
actually happened to my sister. 

   How did I feel ?

   Guilty.

   And this was why I was sent to see Denise in Portland. 

   It was a long weekly trip from the coast to see my 
psychiatrist. Ironically, it was the boredom of this bus 
trip that provided me with occasion to refine the fantasies 
that had caused me so much trouble. I had banned Anne from 
my fantasies. In fact, my new rule was that I would not 
create stories about anyone I knew.

   So I just picked random strangers and built up a life 
around them. Like I remember one day the bus stalled as we 
were leaving town, and I spent a good half hour watching a 
family packing up a u-haul truck with their belongings. The 
parents were having troubles with their teen-aged daughter, 
who was obviously sulking about the move. 

   Although I never saw the girl again after that day, she 
was a frequent subject of my weekly bus fantasies. I kept 
her image in my mind effortlessly, and I built a background 
story slowly. There was no need to rush. There was always 
next week.

   I guess you could say that I met Raven around the same 
time as I met Denise.

   I'll tell you more about Raven in a minute, because she 
became a frequent topic of my weekly analysis sessions with 
Denise. But first, I guess I should finish telling you about 
the visit I had with my dead sister. You see, this is my 
problem with writing (and why I've never felt confidence in 
posting my stuff online); I lack structure. I sort of let 
the stories ramble along at their own pace, according to the 
moods of my characters, and how quickly I can bend them to 
my will. I jump around too much.

   Anyhow, I don't know why my dead sister cam back to visit 
me almost ten years after the events I've just described. It 
probably has something to do with Denise leaving me. I began 
thinking about Anne a lot more. I stirred something I 
shouldn't have, and in a way, I guess you could say that I 
brought her memory back to life.

   The girl who visited me in the coffee shop the other day 
wasn't *exactly* like my sister of course. She was more like 
how I imagined my sister would have turned out if she had 
survived her experimentations with bondage. She was a little 
older now. She dressed differently. She smoked. Nonetheless, 
I could tell it was her.

   " So what have you been doing ? "

   " Quite a lot, really, for a person in my condition. I 
was sort of living another life, until a few weeks ago. Then 
I began to have day dreams, and remembered who I was. "

   " Have you considered that maybe you're wrong ? Maybe the 
life that you were living is the right one. "

   She shrugged. It was a typical response for my older 
sister. 

   " So what are you going to do now ?"

   " I think we both know what I'll be doing. I have some 
catching up to do. "

   " I guess. Just..."

   Anne cocked her head, a little amused by my reluctance to 
speak openly.

   " ... just, be a little more careful this time, okay ?"

   " Yeah. "

   And that was it. A little afternoon resurrection, and my 
whole day was blown. 

   Which, of course, brought me back to thinking about how 
Denise was gone from my life, and how much it had thrown me 
off. I can't believe I've gotten this far writing without 
telling you about her. 

   As much as I dreaded those weekly sessions at first, I 
soon came to a realization that I could learn a lot from a 
psychiatrist with her kind of insight into the human soul. 
She pretty much told me straight out that she didn't much 
care about the stories I had written about my sister.

   " You obviously picked up the clues about what was 
happening in her life, and were able to draw a picture of 
her weaknesses. "

   Actually, the pictures I had drawn of my sister had shown 
her in heavy bondage, with hot wax and clothespins on her 
body. And they weren't really even that good. But that 
wasn't what she had meant. Denise talked a lot about 
intuition.

   " People block out intuition as a valid source of 
information. We're constantly getting information from our 
world, and filtering it out according to our own biases. 
You're just a lot better at sorting it all out than most 
people. I don't think it's anything to be concerned about. "

   Even though she was convinced that the stories I had 
written were harmless, she kept up with the sessions. It 
made my parents feel better to be able to do something about 
it. 

   Instead, she used the sessions to educate me about the 
strengths and weaknesses of the human mind. It was a subject 
of great interest for her. She was always making examples of 
her other patients, many of whom she knew she would never be 
able to help, but gave her just another angle to look at the 
frailties of human motivations. Week by week, she shared her 
conclusions with me.

   Denise changed a lot in the time that I knew her. Early 
on, she had written a paper about some obscure psychological 
phenomena that I couldn't have been bothered to understand. 
Three years later, she reversed her opinion entirely, 
causing a stir in the psychiatric community because her 
original conclusion had been so well supported.

   A few times a year, she changed her image. Sometimes, the 
changes were subtle. Other times, the changes were 
intentionally shocking. 

   She moved her offices twice, and she was always talking 
about moving to another state, or dropping her psychiatry 
practice entirely.

   I think that with all of her analytical powers focused on 
other people, she missed the weakness that was a part of her 
own personality. Denise was always looking for a new start. 
She never wanted to stay in one place. Denise was always 
reinventing herself. 

   It was this need for change that prevented her from 
advancing in her field, despite being an incredibly talented 
doctor. 

   But I'm getting a little ahead of myself. It was years 
before I drew these conclusions. In the meantime, I was 
learning her craft, and she showed a great interest in mine. 

   " What have you written about Raven this week ?" many of 
our sessions would begin. I would still be absorbing the 
effect of the doctor's new dredd-locks, or a new addition to 
her facial jewellery, or a redesign of her office, when I 
began updating her on the story.

   As you remember, Raven was a girl I saw in passing as she 
was moving away from Astoria. She had been fighting with her 
parents about the move. In the following weeks, I filled in 
the details. She was upset because she had been doing so 
well in the local high school. Everyone had been impressed 
by her talents.

   Raven was an artistic girl. She had taken up photography 
and drawing at a young age. I have no hesitance in saying 
that she showed much more talent that I had ever done in my 
own works.

   In Astoria, growing up in a community where west-coast 
artistic ideals were highly valued, no one doubted that she 
could find her place in the local galleries, and would be 
able to make a living off of her talents too. Unfortunately, 
her father was less able to find a living here, and accepted 
a position at a department store in a city south of 
Portland.

   For the first few weeks of imagining Raven, on my long 
bus trip to the city, I was satisfied to fantasize about her 
in an almost passive sort of way. She was a pretty girl. In 
fact, she was just the kind of girl I would normally have 
had a crush on. So, at least to start, I was happy just to 
think about what she would look like changing her clothes in 
the locker room. Sometimes, I would embarrass her by giving 
her a moment of inappropriate sexual arousal (a subject 
which, as a teen aged boy, I knew a lot about), but that was 
about it. Otherwise, I just watched as her new life 
unfolded, and I learned about why she was so miserable 
moving away from Astoria.

   " Is she just afraid, or is there something else ?" 
Denise knew exactly the right questions to ask.

   Well, yes, Raven was afraid of change, but it was much 
more. She was afraid of anonymity. The hallways here were 
filled with unfamiliar faces. They didn't know about her. 
They didn't know how talented she was. Or worse. Maybe they 
wouldn't care. The years of work she had put into building 
her own personal brand name were thrown away. They were 
wasted on these people. Here, they cared about gangster rap, 
and hip-hop attire, and more traditionally, the high school 
football team. 

   It was a culture shock.

   " But why does that concern her so much ? Surely there 
are still art classes. She can still pursue her photography. 
"

   That's not the point. No one cares anymore. It used to 
make her the centre of the universe. Now, she was a dark 
cold moon, waiting for a moment of sun on her face. I'm not 
making this stuff up. These were the heavenly and 
melodramatic terms that Raven painted the world in.

   " That's her weakness ?"

   Yes. Her need. Her weakness. She needed to be looked at 
again. To be warm again.

   " And what's she going to do about it ?"

   Football.

   Well, I guess that was more my idea than hers. I don't 
know if Raven ever would have allowed herself to drift into 
the orbit of those, the brightest stars in the social 
constellation. Maybe she would have just allowed herself to 
be miserable. But I played with her weakness a little bit, 
and drew her towards the football team. Denise agreed with 
me that it was a natural move for a girl so driven by a need 
to be noticed.

   Raven hated football, of course. It was so bloody 
heartland America, Lord's Prayer, Betty Crocker... it was 
the kind of thing she would have made a loud point of 
ignoring in her previous life. But Denise was right. With 
just a few weeks of toying with her weaknesses, I had her 
watching the players' girlfriends, jealous of the attention 
they commanded in social circles. She began to slowly 
reconcile herself with the idea that she might, maybe, just 
perhaps be able to date one of the players, if he were 
intelligent or sensitive enough.

   In the end, she couldn't find intelligence of 
sensitivity, so she settled for silent dignity. Will 
McKenzie was quiet enough that Raven could at least pretend 
that there was "more to him"... a side to him that no one 
else knew about. 

   But you know me. You've seen how my stories work. After 
this first little concession to her flawed character, you 
know that I'm going to lead Raven into some sick story line. 
It was just a matter of time. 

   Denise was interested in the details. She told me not to 
be embarrassed by my fantasies. A lot of people keep these 
dirty little secret stories in their minds, and never let 
them out. I was just being honest about it. In a way, coming 
to terms with my fantasy life was even therapeutic. With 
Denise's reassurance, I was setting aside my guilt over my 
sister's death.

   In the coming weeks and months, amongst our other 
discussions, Denise listened to the way that Raven was 
adjusting to this new source of celestial light in her 
social life. Little by little, I nudged her along the way to 
becoming something new. She enjoyed the jealous attention of 
the other girls at school. She enjoyed the thrill of 
exhibitionism when Will had her pinned against her locker 
for a groping session between classes.

   I didn't make her give up her artwork, but it sort of 
fell away on its own against her new popularity. She was 
always going to parties. She was hanging out with the other 
girlfriends and cheerleaders. She was too busy shopping. 
Then, of course, there were the football games.

   Here was a plot twist that was already developing its way 
through my imagination all on its own. I had very little to 
do with it until later, when I saw its potential. At first, 
it was just a little thing. The coaching staff treated these 
boys like real athletes, giving them freedoms that would be 
denied to other students. For instance, it had long been 
accepted that the boys could invite their girlfriends along 
in the team bus when going out to road games. And, so long 
as the boys were ready to play when they arrived, the 
coaching staff was willing to let the boys and girls some 
unsupervised time to enjoy each others company along the 
way.

   The first time Raven was invited, it was like being asked 
to join a secret society. Once inside, she saw for the first 
time the freedom that was given to this social elite. Beer 
coolers were brought along for after the game. The boys 
wrestled and shoved each other, and generally showed off 
their testosterone. The girls went further than Raven would 
have ever guessed. They flashed their tits. They made out 
with two or three guys at a time. One girl was even treating 
her boyfriend to a pre-game blow job at the back of the bus. 
He head was covered with the boy's jacket, but everyone knew 
what was going on. Her face went red when everyone gave her 
a round of applause, but she seemed to enjoy being the 
centre of attention for the rest of the ride.

   I reviewed this scene in my own imagination, and in 
Raven's night time fantasies too. Denise loved it. "It's 
right on point. You've given this girl just the kind of 
environment where her weaknesses will work against her every 
moral sensibility. She needs to be the centre of attention. 
She needs it more than any other girl on that bus. But for 
her to get the attention she needs, Raven will have to 
decide if she can compete with these girls on a level where 
they, due to a lack of brains of morality, have a natural 
advantage. "

   And, while I would never have put it quite that way, I 
knew exactly what Denise was saying. Raven was used to being 
smarter and more talented than the people surrounding her. 
Here, on the other hand, her only defence against obscurity 
was a willingness to become a part of the machine that was 
high-school football, a sport which had always struck her as 
a little less interesting than watching grass grow.

   I worked with her. I held her hand. When necessary, I 
gave her a little push. In fact, as far as the dynamics in 
that bus went, I was helping all of the characters along. I 
urged them all to push it a little further. I convinced the 
coaching staff to turn a blind eye to the heavy drinking, 
and drugs, and to the more obvious sex acts that were 
appearing each week.

   After a victory , the boys were full of a manic energy, 
and the girlfriends were more than willing to help them 
celebrate. Raven went cautiously with the flow, letting the 
boys see her body, letting them touch her, letting them kiss 
her. She drank with them, and danced to their music. But she 
was never the centre of attention. There was always some 
girl who was willing to go a little further. In the end, 
Raven would find herself in bed at night with feverish 
thoughts in her imagination, urging her to take the 
spotlight. She wanted it so badly.

   It made sense, I told her. Why would she be there, 
watching their game, letting them see her body, keeping her 
boyfriend sexually satisfied... why would she be doing all 
of this, just to be "one of the girls" ? It wasn't enough. 
She wanted to be more than that. She wanted to be the girl 
everyone was talking about the next day. She wanted to be 
the envy of all the other girls in school. She wanted to be 
noticed.

   Of course, she knew what it would take. She would have to 
be willing to have sex with one of the team openly, with 
everyone else watching. Maybe she would have to have sex 
with more than one of them. The thought was almost more than 
she could take. It gave her such a shameful arousal, to 
think about lowering herself into that position. Guys would 
be watching her every move... the way her pussy accepted 
another cock... the way that cum glistened between her 
thighs. 

   When the next game arrived, however, she chickened out a 
bit. Will was making out with her near the back of the bus, 
and she was really horny, but she couldn't make herself do 
it. She pushed him away before things went too far, and 
spent the rest of the trip just watching the scene around 
her, and cursing herself for being such a prude.

   It wasn't that big a deal, she told herself. A lot of 
these girls had dated more than one of these players. She 
wasn't sexually repressed. So what was she worried about ? 
And in the meantime, while she sat anonymously at the back 
of the bus, the other girls were making out with their 
boyfriends, and showing off their panties, and sucking up 
all of the attention greedily.

   She stewed about it at the game too. If she wasn't 
willing to make herself the centre of attention, what was 
the point in even trying. She might as well have stayed in 
art class.

   So I gave her just the plot twist she needed. You see, up 
until this point, I had always felt it would be much more 
fun to see the boys celebrate a victory, so I nudged them 
along. I made the opposing players miss the ball. I gave the 
team a few openings that they wouldn't have otherwise come 
upon.

   But tonight, I decided to give them a little taste of 
defeat. It was a shock to the crowd, many of whom had driven 
the two hours to see their team take another road game.

   Raven was surprised by how much it changed the mood of 
everyone. Suddenly, the girls she was hanging out with were 
looking for other rides home. The team disappeared to the 
locker room to take their lumps from the coaching staff. The 
celestial lights of her football team were dimmed, and it 
gave Raven a taste of the same sort of panic she had known 
that day when I first saw her packing her boxes into a truck 
to leave Astoria.

   It was the perfect reminder. When the boys emerged to go 
back to the bus, Raven had already decided what to do. No 
matter what it took, people would be talking about her the 
next day. She wouldn't allow herself to be pulled down into 
darkness again.

   " Why don't you grab a ride with us, " one of the other 
girlfriends offered. " The boys are a real drag to be around 
after a loss. "

   " No, I'm sticking by the team. "

   Team loyalty was as good an excuse as any to get onto the 
bus. As she soon learned, however, she would be the only 
one. All of the other girls had kept away.

   The bus, usually bright with the reading lights, and loud 
with music, had taken on an entirely different mood this 
night. As it pulled away from the high school, the boys 
turned off their lights, and slumped into their chairs to 
nurse their self-pity. 

   Whatever it takes, Raven reminded herself. She grabbed a 
beer to steady her nerves, and offered one to Will. He drank 
silently.

   And he stayed silent, until Raven dropped between the 
seats and began to kiss his belly while pulling his cock 
free for a blow job.

   A few of the other boys were watching her, she knew. It 
was a good start. Before this night was done, she wanted to 
give them all a show they wouldn't forget. 

   " Oh, fuck, that's it..." the usually silent football 
player began to chant, as Raven forced back her gag reflex 
and allowed his cock into her throat.

   " Man, the bitch is deep throating him, " one of the 
other boys nudged his buddy awake. 

   The bitch. Raven didn't much like the way he referred to 
her, but at least he was noticing.

   By the time Will jerked his hips up from the bus seat, 
and filled her throat, half the team must have been 
watching, and Raven was feeling exactly like she had 
expected to in her feverish fantasies. She felt like a total 
whore, but the attention felt good. It felt right. 

   It felt even better when one of the other guys grabbed 
her ass and said, " I wouldn't mind a little piece of that. 
"

   In the dim light of the bus, Raven unsnapped her jeans, 
and allowed the guy to slide his hand in to feel the 
softness of her panties and smooth flesh. Another pair of 
hands emerged from the darkness to help her out of her 
sweater. 

   It was working. Everyone was watching. And although the 
mood on the bus hadn't changed much, Raven could feel the 
focus shift in her direction. It wasn't about losing a 
football game. It was about some slutty bitch who was 
letting the guys undress her and put their hands down her 
panties.

   " This whore is totally wet for it..." through her 
nerves, Raven hadn't noticed.

   " Hey, McKenzie... you mind if I give her some ?"

   Will shrugged. It was another surge of humiliation of 
Raven. It didn't matter what she wanted. She was just some 
dumb girl who was begging for it. They only had to ask 
permission from her boyfriend.

   She was pulled onto the lap of one of the guys. It was 
one of the receivers, but Raven couldn't remember his name. 
He pulled her panties aside, and entered her roughly, and 
much more quickly than she had expected. She bit her lip to 
stifle her cry of discomfort.

   " Mmmn, yeah... pump it into me..." she played along with 
the script. Hell, I've never been much good at dialogue, and 
Raven wasn't in one of her more poetic moods.

   She was absorbed in the sensations of the moment. The 
thrill. The adrenaline. She was definitely the centre of the 
universe right now. There was the smell of sweat, and beer, 
and dirt. The team was cheering the receiver along as he 
pumped her from below. The taste of semen was fresh in her 
mouth.

   Her kiss was refused. That wasn't what she was there for. 
The player held her tightly by her hair as he put on a show 
for his friends. Someone pulled off her bra roughly, 
exposing her smallish tits and hard nipples to the approval 
of the team.

   " Take it, you cunt, " the boy demanded, as he emptied 
himself into her body. When he was done, he tossed her into 
the aisle like a used tissue.

   This is beginning not to feel right, Raven told me. I 
already knew, of course. You should have thought about that 
before you allowed it to get this far. You aren't going to 
back out now. 

   Not that the boys would really even have let her. Her 
knees were forced down onto the hardness of the floor, and 
one of the boys took position behind her. Another boy fed 
his cock between her lips. They didn't bother to ask her 
boyfriend this time. It was just understood. She belonged to 
the team right now.

   But it wasn't the exciting, playful kind of sex play she 
had witnessed on previous rides home. This was something 
more primal. More brutal. This was a group of teen aged 
boys, their bodies battered from the game, pouring the pain 
of their injuries and of defeat into the body of some stupid 
slut. It was an act to regain their manhood by pounding 
their frustrations into her mouth and pussy.

   Raven began to protest, too late already, she knew. There 
were too many hands. Too many voices. When she tried to pull 
away from the rough treatment, she was reward with a hard 
slap on the ass or across the back of her head.

   She tried to hold still, and wait for it to end, but 
there was always another cock and always another set of 
hands to dig its fingernails into her abused tits. By the 
time one of the boys decided to fuck her asshole, she was 
too exhausted to put up much of a fight. Raven squealed and 
tried to squirm away, which only seemed to amuse the boys 
further.

   It was impossible to say how long she stayed there, on 
the carpeted aisle at the back of the bus, now soiled with 
spilled beer and spilled semen. After a while, the bus came 
to a stop, and Raven began to hope that they had finally 
reached the parking lot of the school. But it was too dark 
here. Much too dark.

   The bus was just pulled over to the side of the road, 
while the boys finished abusing her body. One of them fucked 
her from behind so forcefully that her head was forced 
underneath the back bench seats of the bus. And that's where 
she stayed until the entire team was finished, and even the 
coaching staff had taken their turns. 

   This wasn't how she had imagined it at all. All of the 
lights were dimmed when the bus pulled back onto this 
deserted stretch of road. From where she was collapsed, her 
face beneath the seats, she could barely make out any light 
at all.

   But she was certainly the talk of the school the next 
day. In fact, she was treated sort of like a mascot. And the 
next time the boys lost a road game, no one else even 
offered her a ride home.

   The team's record sure got worse from that point in the 
season. But I digress.

   Anyhow, I kept it going like that for a long while, but 
it eventually lost interest. Once the conflict was gone, it 
always does. I found new characters, and new conflicts, and 
kept going on to Denise every week, so that we could share 
our findings. 

   Unfortunately, everything eventually comes to an end. I 
told you that Denise was always looking to reinvent herself. 
The nine years that she remained in Portland were filled 
with hints that she wanted to move on. Last month, I think I 
knew it was inevitable.

   Something changed. It may have begun when there was a 
media report of a high school sex scandal from a nearby 
city. Denise asked me about it a couple of times, but I had 
conscientiously avoided the details in the major newspapers. 
Apparently, it involved the football team, and went back 
several years... and yes, I though the parallels were a 
little odd, but as I said, I avoided the details. I don't 
need those kinds of questions in my life.

   Denise tried to let it go, I think. She wanted to believe 
the things she had always said, about intuition, and the 
frailties of the human mind. But something had definitely 
changed.

   She gave me one bit of advice before she left on 
vacation. 

   " Maybe I've brought you in the wrong direction, " she 
admitted. " I mean, I know that people have weaknesses. And 
you've been looking at fundamentally strong people with 
character flaws, and seeing how it leads to their 
destruction. "

   She paused. She looked... I don't know, apprehensive.

   " And maybe... maybe you could try looking at it 
differently some time. Not all at once, I guess. I mean, you 
still have a lot of stories happening... but maybe you could 
find someone with a fundamental weakness, and see how it can 
lead to a new strength. I don't know. "

   That was the last bit of analysis she gave me before 
going to the Thousand Islands for a vacation. She sent me a 
post card from Gananoque.

   And I know that I told you that I've tried not to let 
people I know enter into my fantasy life, but when Denise 
left, I guess I couldn't help myself. I was curious about 
where life would lead her. I knew that she was trying to 
reinvent herself one more time. That was her weakness.

   So, when she was in Gananoque, seeing the islands, I 
guess she decided to go out to a bar one night, and find a 
man to spend the night with. She chose the kind of man she 
would never have considered in Portland. He lived in a 
remote area of the lakes region of Ontario. 

   In my mind, he was a crude man. He was a trucker 
sometimes. Other times of the year, he grew pot in the 
remote hills, where the Provincial Police wouldn't be 
looking for it. He lived in a cabin, and raised chickens. He 
joked with his buddies about the "proper place for a woman", 
but only at home did Denise know how little he was joking.

   But it was as extreme a change as she could manage. No 
one would believe how differently she was living, in the 
remote hills of Ontario. She could barely believe it 
herself. Maybe one day, she would reinvent herself again. 
But for now, it was raising chickens, and chopping wood, and 
hoping to get pregnant so that her boyfriend would lay off 
the rough treatment for a while.

   I don't know. That's just how I fancy it. I'll just say 
that her colleagues were more surprised by her disappearance 
than I was. I didn't even bother to rebook my appointments.

   So that's what's brought me here. I miss Denise, and I 
have to say that things are falling apart a little. Like I 
told you before, I've been a little careless with my 
thoughts, and that's what led to my delusion that my sister 
came to visit me over a coffee. Over the last month, a lot 
of things have been happening, and that's what's inspired me 
to write down my thoughts like this... a sort of self-
review.

   I'm just a lot less disciplined in my thinking than I've 
tried to be over the past few years. It could become a 
problem for me. 

   And I'd like to stop myself, but I guess I just can't be 
fulfilled with my life the way it is. I've mentioned a 
couple of times that I'm not happy with the people I work 
with. Cindy, Mark and Barbara are their names. We all work 
at city hall together. 

   I never would have guessed either. I never would have 
thought that I would come out of high school, and get a 
paperwork job. Licensing. Fees. Useless stuff.

   But as useless as it is, I try to make sure it gets done 
right. There's where my frustration with my co-workers comes 
in. They're just undisciplined. Barbara runs the office. She 
has a weakness for food. Since I've known her, it's become a 
lot worse. She hides chocolate boxes around the office. I 
don't know. It's almost a sexual thing, the way she sucks 
out those cream fillings. I'll bet she was pretty attractive 
in her day, but she's really packing it on now. 

   Mark has his own compulsions. He joked to me one day 
about dressing up like a girl for Halloween. Now there was 
an image I could have done without. Then, not too much 
later, I began to notice little changes. He was spending a 
lot of time in the washroom. One time, he came out with some 
eyeliner still on. Other times, I thought I could see the 
outline of a bra under his dress shirt. I think he's even 
trying to lose weight to fit into women's clothing.

   Cindy. Poor little Cindy. I'm afraid that she might be 
pregnant again. It's a pattern I've seen four times in the 
five years that I've known her. She complains about being a 
young mother. She had one in her teens too, making for a 
total of five. Nonetheless, as if by impulse she can't 
control, she goes down to Seaside on the weekends, and 
parties until she passes out. Then, it's like she never even 
thought about the idea that she might become pregnant again. 
It's sad. That's all.

   I know I'm sounding pretty critical here. I mean, who the 
hell am I to be talking, with my head as screwed up as it is 
? I wouldn't care so much if they could keep their minds on 
their work for a while. But all three of them sit around and 
waste time, just thinking about the next time they can 
indulge their weaknesses. For a guy with my intuitive 
abilities, it can be rather distracting.

   So a couple of weeks ago, I decided to take a little time 
off and get the fuck out of town.

   As I said, ever since Denise left, my mind has been in 
turmoil, and so I guess I just needed to clear my head a 
little, and see if I could sort some things out.

   I drove down to Newport. I don't know what led me in that 
direction, but I guess it all worked out okay. I mean, I met 
a new character for my fantasy life, and this one is a 
little different.

   Yes, you have reason to be suspicious. All of my other 
fantasies have thrown these poor women into situations that 
are pretty sick, really. Poor unwilling Becky. My older 
sister, Anne. Raven, who I haven't thought about for a 
while, but is sure to creep back into my imagination if I 
let myself get undisciplined. I can't help but think that 
Denise would have been better off with a happier ending too.

   But this one is different. Maybe I listened to Denise's 
last bit of advice. I stopped looking for a hidden weakness, 
and maybe I was a little overanxious to look for a hidden 
strength.

   The girl I saw was working in a souvenir shop at Bayside, 
a real tourist trap. Actually, it was more of a T-shirt 
shop. It sold all of these T-shirts with sarcastic slogans 
that didn't have much to do with the Oregon Coast, but the 
tourists stopped to chuckle at anyhow.

   Rachel caught my eye because she didn't seem amused at 
all. And maybe I would have just chalked that up to retail 
fatigue, but there was something else in her manner. She 
just didn't seem to care. It was a look I'd only ever seen 
on older people. Detached. Like her life was already over. 

   It nearly was. Or so my imagination goes.

   I tried my best not to force a story line onto her. I 
watched her in my mind while she watched herself in the 
mirror. She brought the blades so close to her wrists, and 
she wasn't just playing around either. She was going to 
split the vein lengthwise, so that the bleeding wouldn't 
stop when she passed out.

   I wasn't causing this, I tried to convince myself. Had I 
just imagined this kind of grief into her ? No. It was there 
already. This was just a coincidence. My visit to Newport 
was just timed badly.

   But I couldn't let her do it, could I ? Not the way I had 
allowed things to go too far with my sister. 

   So I tried to find something inside of her that would be 
strong enough to stop the blade.

   And there it was: Fearless.

   Fearless. Like someone with nothing left to lose. If it 
didn't matter if she lived or died, then why not live for a 
while entirely without fear. Without remorse. Borrow some 
time from death, and do everything she never had the courage 
to do. To pick a fight with bullies, and never worry about 
getting a bloody nose. What did it matter ? She was nearly 
dead now anyway. There would be no reason not to tell her 
everyone exactly what she thought of them. To go and see 
places that she'd never been.

   I found it in her somewhere, and I gave it to her as a 
gift. Next thing I knew, she was laughing, and I was too. It 
was a nice moment.

   But when I returned to work, the old malaise came back. 
All of the fantasies were returning to my head. That's when 
my sister came to visit me. And Cindy, Mark and Barbara 
seemed worse than ever.

   I've been trying to distract myself by thinking about 
Rachel. Over the course of a couple of days, she had become 
more assertive than I could ever have imagined. 

    This is a definite departure from my other fantasies, 
which, although enjoyable, have become a little stagnant. 
Maybe I'm taking a page from Denise's book, and reinventing 
myself... or at least my fantasy life to some extent. And 
it's really refreshing. Instead of seeing my characters 
giving everything up for a moment of weakness (which is a 
bit of a pessimistic view anyhow), I'm seeing Rachel take a 
lifetime of strength from a moment of weakness.

   She has broken off ties with her family. Just like that. 
She quit her job, but not before getting a generous 
severance package by threatening her boss with sexual 
harassment charges. She has spent the last few nights with 
different guys, but not worrying herself about a 
relationship... she's just taking what pleasure she wants, 
and moving on. 

   She has become, in just over a week, the exact kind of 
person I can respect. Not like the weaklings I seem to have 
subconsciously surrounded myself with.

   Rachel is sort of a symbol of order in the chaos. She's 
taking control of her life, fearlessly.

   I can't help but think that people like Mark and Cindy 
and Barbara really could use someone like her around the 
office... you know, just to keep things disciplined. Under 
control. Truthfully, I could probably use someone like her 
around too. Maybe that's why I've dreamed her up.

   But hell, what are the odds of that happening ? Someone 
like her wouldn't want to come up to Astoria and get a job 
in city hall. Would she ?

   Still... I can't help but imagine...

***

Comments can be forwarded to: orestes007@hotmail.com
All of my stories can be found at: 
ftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/Orestes/
