The Sick Zak Course of My Life Ch. 04
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I blame that swine, my uncle Zak. What has he turned me into? (What has he turned us both into, Yanti and me?) My fingers toy with my pussy as bits of my mind yell, Stop it right now! (But I don’t.) David is asleep; hard day at work. I can hear his breathing, deep and long, as I wish mine was. I try not to shake the mattress as my fingers, as if with a mind of their own, manipulate the parts of me that like being treated … like this. My hips curl around my sexual stage as if to form a protective guard. I am abed, warm and safe, but … how could I have let that happen? (I can’t get it out of my mind.)
It was Zak, again, of course. His influence is all pervading. He was visiting town. A ‘flying visit’ was how he put it on the phone from the airport; a ‘flying fuck’ more likely is what he wanted. I know the man. His reprobate ways. Despicable man that he is. I grabbed my jacket and headed out the door as soon as I put down the phone. David was away that night and I didn’t want Zak staying while David was away. At the last minute I remembered poor Yanti. If I left her alone she’d be red and raw by the time I returned. Poor girl. How could I commit her to that? So I headed back inside, and told her we were going to the city. ‘Girls night out,’ was how I put it.
‘But where?’ she asked, stopping what she was doing. (Ironing clothes.)
‘I dunno. Bit of shopping. Coffee. Slice of chocolate cake,’ I said, for Yanti likes her chocolate cake. ‘Maybe take in a film?’
The last part did the trick. ‘Oh. Wow!’ her face lit up. ‘I love the cinema!’ she enthused, switching off the iron, yanking off her apron as she headed for her room. ‘What do I wear?’ she called out, once there.
‘Casual,’ I shouted back, glancing at my watch nervously. I was dressed in a blouse and skirt for messing around home, but I wasn’t about to change. No time! Zak may have had lied about phoning from the airport. He could be in a taxi on his way here. (He likes to catch his prey unaware. That, if little else, I have learned about my rotten Uncle Zak.)
‘Hurry up,’ I called to Yanti, glancing at my watch again, though why I cannot think. It’s not as if I knew when he’d appear.
Nerves, I guess.
Yanti came out of her room in a T-shirt and shorts. How can anyone who looks like that — all ripeness, ripples and curves — not realise that wearing shorts that hug her as tightly as that (especially there) are bound to attract attention. The kind of attention that makes life hard. (Men too, you have to guess!) But there was no time. ‘Let’s go,’ I snapped, heading through the kitchen to the garage. I tried not to run.
‘Why are we running?’ asked Yanti, as we jogged down the path through the garden at the back. I didn’t reply. But once we were seated, seat-belts on, the garage door lifting to the ceiling, I commented,
‘These shorts. They’re pretty brief?’
‘So are your skirts,’ she giggled, big eyes on the road, a mischievous smile on her face.
Since the time in the attic with Uncle Zak and my collection of coins, Yanti and I have never brought up the subject of her, and me, or how ‘close’ we had been that day. (It is better, I think.) But there is no doubt what took place between us has softened our relationship. We are more like sisters now than mistress and maid. Teasing and the discussion of more intimate subjects — though still not THAT intimate — are now almost common between us. (I am only a few years older than Yanti, after all.) I have become the older sister, she the younger. We have our fun, is what I’m saying, though we keep our hands to ourselves. I put the car in gear, moved out and took a left, heading away from the airport route. Yanti had her huge cotton shoulder bag on her lap. (Balinese, I think.)
Once we were on our way I glanced at the skirt I wore. Lots of my legs were on display too. Two or three metres of pretty good legs between us! I’d forgotten how brief some of my skirts were. I went through a period of flaunting my legs in my last years of college, and the year leading up to my marriage. Don’t ask me why. “Your legs are an asset most gals would kill for,” Uncle Zak told me once, in a moment of ill-advised intimacy, before adding, “Most men would kill for them too.” I had them wrapped around his head at the time. Best forgotten.
After shopping and wandering the malls, having coffee and chocolate cake, (twice,) and a pizza for dinner, we ended up in a cinema I’d never been to before. It was a little seedy and run down but the nearest to the restaurant. One of the waiters directed us. I figured Uncle Zak would probably hang on at home, pretty late, and then, if we didn’t appear, give up and head back to the airport hotel to be ready for his early morning flight. I reckoned midnight would do it. He’d have given up by then. We had time to kill, so here we were. ‘The Playhouse’ it was called. (What else did two twenty-something girls, a mistress and her maid, do in the city in the evening?) As it transpired, it was not a good idea. (But I didn’t know ankara escort bayan that at the time.)
Yanti and I stumbled through the darkness towards some vacant seats up near the back. We were directed there by the fading beam of a failing torch in the hands of an ailing usher, who didn’t seem to want to be there any more than we did. I had no idea what the feature film was about. Then Yanti leaned close, and giggled, and said, ‘A big guy just sat down beside me.’ (Yanti has this thing about ‘big guys’. She says Westerners are so much bigger than the guys at home. And, I’m quoting Yanti again, (in playful mood,) she likes them ‘big’. I usually ignore her when she talks like this, but it doesn’t stop her doing it. Youthful exuberance, I guess.)
I told her, playing the straight guy to Yanti’s playful girl, that it was a cinema, that if you weren’t using a seat it was free for anyone who had paid the entry fee. They weren’t our seats. Then I leaned forward, playing the concerned older sister, and glanced past her to have a look. I saw the ‘big guy’ (he wasn’t that big,) was with a woman. So I responded to my playful maid by saying, ‘Leave him alone, you don’t know where he’s been,’ and added. ‘His wife is with him, and she won’t approve.’ With that, I sat back and relaxed intent on finding out whether I might like the film. At which point another guy entered our row, squeezed past us all and then, a little to my annoyance, sat down next to me.
I am never sure what it is about cinemas and theatres, where you sit in partial darkness, that if the seat next to you is suddenly taken, it feels like an invasion of your space. It did to me now? But of course what I had just said to Yanti applied equally to me. So I swallowed my illogical annoyance, and got on with the film. It was one of these languid French affairs. Filmy dresses and farmyards and lingering looks. Three minutes into trying to fathom what the storyline is, Yanti leans over and says, again with her playful little giggle, “I think the big guy likes me.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the screen.
“Trust me, he likes me,” she responds.
“Imagination,” I retort.
“Shut the fuck up,” says a voice behind me, as a thick finger prods my shoulder pretty hard. So we do, (shut the fuck up,) because the voice behind sounds a whole lot deeper — and the owner a whole lot bigger — than the ‘big guy’ next to Yanti.
As if all this isn’t enough off-screen entertainment to be going on with, some minutes later the knee of the guy on my right, spread wide to his left, touches mine. I think about this, as the youngster on the screen in the French looking frock, (in French it is a frock, in English it’s a dress made of filament, at least what the girl on the screen — Annette, is her name — is wearing, appears to be made of filament) walks — no, let’s call that a ‘saunter’ — across the farmyard. (the knee, against mine, doesn’t move away, indicating, one has to assume, that it is happy there. I think about that.) Two hooded eyes on the screen, from the stable, follow Annette’s progress across the sun dappled yard. Highlights flickering through the filament of the frock hint at the girl within. The film is French. The girl is no dullard. Her shape is not bad. Not bad at all.
I move my knee. Two minutes later, his knee follows. Thirty seconds after that his foot follows suit. I now have his calf against mine, as well as his knee. I suddenly wonder if Uncle Zak has followed us into the cinema: come in behind us and now sits beside me, starting to play with me just as he usually does? I sneak a glance to my right. If it’s Uncle Zak it’s a great disguise. (Doesn’t look anything like him.) I don’t know whether it is the thought of Uncle Zak, or something in my mind that reacts to Uncle Zak, but I leave my leg where it is. I let him press his own against it, as if so doing is a form of … I don’t know … penance? The penance owed for being a reasonably attractive woman in her prime, when so many others are not?
His heel lifts off the floor, moving his calf against mine, rolling his knee against my knee. I hold still. We are much desired, of course — the section of humanity to which I belong — and perhaps we should recognise this. What harm do I do in letting this unknown older man, probably deprived of youth and looks like me (comparatively so) –touch me like this? Or … But now I am not so sure. I now have his hand on my knee. I think about that. I Leave my leg as it is but think about the hand. He desires to touch me. Desires to share what I have. What he has not … I let him touch me. Feel my skin — my flesh, the muscle within, the bulk and shape of what I have. To him, a younger ripeness.
The farmyard is void of flitting frocks, backlit forms, pecking chicken and the pig that was strolling near the muck pile. The evening approaches. The sound of horsebeats grows louder in the background. (The hand strokes my knee, but inoffensively. I let him stroke me. I let it wander a little demetevler escort way up my leg, then back, as if he is nervous, not sure if he’s allowed.) Ah! A horseman now in sight. And there is a chicken. I see it now, scurrying out of the path of the horse. (It is difficult to hold my leg still with the stranger’s hand delicately stroking the skin. But I must, I feel. Hold it still. It would not do to acknowledge that I know it’s there. The hand. His hand, I mean.) It is the brother. The one who’s dark stare follows Annette wherever she goes. A brooding countenance, one might say.
I drop my eyes, unobtrusively, to my legs. (I don’t want him to know I know, you see.) I see my neighbour’s hand. His elbow is over the armrest between us, my side. I feel it at my hip. I wander into his mind — or think I do. ‘This attractive woman next to me, fresh and healthy and young, legs mostly bare, short skirt.’ (I’d have fragrance too, if I’d had time to dress properly before I came out!) What does he want to do. To me? If life was free, and we were somewhere else. Someplace private, say. What would he want to do. To me?
I suddenly remember Yanti at my side. I glance at her, alarmed. (If I can plainly see the hand that’s on my knee then she can too.) Her eyes are on the screen. A far off look, the lips — she has such foxy lips — in the tiniest pout: half amusement, half petulance. (Not that she is, you understand, amused or petulant, it is merely that her lips are so plump that they give the impression she is.) … I stop. The hand has slipped over my knee and a strange man’s fingers have started to stroke the sensitive skin on the inside of my leg.
Time for us to move. I think to turn to Yanti to inform her of this when the hand between my legs moves more confidently upwards, the back of the fingernails brushing my other leg as they climb — my legs drift apart to permit it –the effect begins to empty my mind. What does he want to do to me? He wishes to arouse me. And excite me? Yes, excite me. It’s offensive: of course. And bad: no-brainer. It is probably evil and wrong … but, sweet Jesus, it is also … I don’t know what it is also. I take my elbow off the arm-rest between us. I put my right hand over my left forearm, clearing the armrest for him, I guess you’d have to say. His arm is now angled over it towards my lap where it ducks down at the wrist to the hand between my legs.
All I can think of, focus on, feel, is the touch of this strange man’s fingers between my legs, up in the soft part half way between my knees and my … you know where I mean. That, and the fact that for some unknown, unguessed at reason, I am not doing a damn thing to stop him. Because I don’t know how? I let my glance wander left, towards Yanti, have not wanting her to notice what I’m letting this man do, half wondering what I would do if she was watching too, half realising that if she was watching it would make the whole thing more … more what? … more ar/
I move my head back. My mouth is open.
Sweet Jesus. She has the same problem as me!
So why, I wonder, after an age, as the brother follows Annette down a moonlit avenue of trees that seem to go on for ever, are we not communicating? Why am I not objecting to what my neighbour is doing with my legs? Why is she not objecting to what hers is doing with her legs? I know we are mistress and maid, but still. We are also females. Friends. So why do we not defend ourselves?
Is that what it is, a form of defence? And if it is, what is it we are defending? Honour? The risk of being excited and aroused. The risk of getting off on it. Orgasm. The little death. Pulsing the joyous fantastic. Getting down and dirty. Lifting the sky off the place!)
I have started chewing the side of my lip. I find myself wondering how Yanti’s guy can put his hand on her leg with his wife, or sister or girlfriend, sitting one seat along? Then I stop thinking too clearly about that because the stranger’s fingers are so far up my legs that they must by now be under the hem of my skirt. I don’t dare look to confirm it. (Gawd, but this is a long avenue of trees!) Nervously — because arousal brings nervousness at its coat-tails, don’t ask me why — I glance at Yanti’s lap, thinking perhaps I may have imagined what I saw there. (I hadn’t.)
Yanti’s ‘big guy’ has his hand on her leg. High up on her leg. It is spread possessively over her skin as if it was his leg rather than hers. Yanti shorts are so brief you can hardly see them. It makes her legs outrageously apparent, even in the dimness this far from the screen. It is over the leg nearest him. At the top where her shorts start. I watch, open-mouthed, as his little finger carelessly strokes the bulge at the front of her far-too-short shorts.
Yanti is staring at the screen as if her life depended on it, her fingers curled round the armrests either side. I suddenly realise I am doing much the same thing, except one of my hands is clutched tight round my other arm, rather esat escort than the rest — which I’ve surrendered to the guy with his hands up my skirt. His fingers are stroking my pussy, over my panties. Where I got the guts from I dunno, but something makes me reach for the guy’s wrist — the one stuck under my skirt. I pull it out. Now I have it in my hand.
What now? I wonder. I move it back to the guy’s lap and leave it there. Simple. No problem. I bring my own hand back over my side of the arm-rest, feeling pretty damned pleased with myself. That’s not so damn hard, I think. Then I lean towards Yanti and whisper in her ear. ‘Just lift it up and give it back to him.’
She doesn’t even look at me.
I try again, ‘Just lift it up and give it back to him.’
Nothing … nada … zilch.
I lean forward to see if I can stare her neighbour off. He has his wife’s, or girl friend’s, hand in one of his on one side while on the other (his other hand) is playing with the highly excitable tush, of Yanti, my maid. But he doesn’t seem to notice me. I sit back. I stare some more at the hand in Yanti’s lap. The fingers, encouraged perhaps by the lack of resistance on her part, are starting to wander all over the girl. On either leg, between both, softly over skin, onto the fabric of her shorts, pressing down on her mound, tickling below it where her clitoris lives. I cannot see why she does nothing to prevent it. I look at her again, but her eyes have a glazed ‘I’m-not-here’ sort of look. What the hell’s with her? Which is when I notice my neighbour has extended his arm along the back of my seat. When did that happen? I figure it must have been when I looked along at Yanti’s neighbour, giving him the death stare. Lot of good that did!
So … what do I do about the arm around the back of me?
If I kick up a fuss the bloke behind me will tell me to shut the fuck up. Again. And I don’t want that. Besides, he wouldn’t care about an arm on my seat. Maybe he thinks I’m his girl friend. Or daughter. Or something. It’s hardly touching me anyway. Which is when I notice the bloke next to Yanti has just put his left arm, the one not involved with Yanti, around his wife — girl-friend, whatever — and they’ve started necking. Jeeees! Both her arms are round his head, pulling it close, while his other hand quite calmly fondles Yanti!
My guy’s hand is back on my knee. And he’s closer than before. I feel his arm around my shoulders. I take a deep breath and the hand slithers off my knee back between my legs and starts to move upwards. I grab the arm, just below the elbow, with both hands. ‘Stop it,’ I hiss at him. But no sooner do I than I get a sharp prod on the back of my head. ‘Hey fuck-wit,’ a big voice says from behind me. ‘We’re trying to watch the movie. Either sit still and shut the fuck up, or get your frigging boy-friend to take you somewhere else.’
I swing my head around. I want to tell the guy that this is not my ‘frigging boy friend’ and the only reason I’m speaking at all is because he has his hand on my leg … in fact it’s up my skirt! But the guy behind is huge and has a girl-friend of his own, sitting on his lap with her skirt round her waist, and a big hand stuck in the waistband of her panties. Shit!
I swing back round, embarrassed, and just a little bit shocked. Doesn’t she know she can be seen? Not well … Ngaaaargh! Jeeeesus! My pelvis just flipped. I look at my lap. All I can see is my legs, apart (who decided that?) beneath an abbreviated covering of skirt, and this guy’s arm that disappears beneath it. This isn’t good. (His fingers are incredible.) I hump all of a sudden, clearly aroused, (and who decided THAT?). Unable to catch the urge to pulse into his touch, I do it, again. Then I reach for his arm, easing it away just a tad. He lets it come, but just the smallest way. I lean to him and hiss in his ear. ‘Please, I am hellish sensitive there.’ I figure if I’m honest he’ll desist.
‘It’s alright, pet. I’ll be gentle,’ he whispers back, dropping his other arm over my shoulder, his hand around the point. I feel the rough sleeve of his shirt at the back of my neck. I try to relax. I try to pay attention to the movie. I try to ignore the arm around my shoulders, and the hand around its point, and the other hand that’s in between my legs, playing with my knickers and the bits of me beneath.
Why didn’t I tell him I didn’t want him to touch me at all, instead of just complaining how sensitive I was? I cast my eye around me. We are clearly in the make-out zone of the cinema. All the heads are close, many tight together, some of them out their seats — the one behind me, for example! I try to relax.
I glance at Yanti. Her eyes are shut. Her hips have slipped forward in her seat and her head’s against the backrest. I check her lap, and see why. The guy has his fingers in the fly at the front of her shorts. The catch at the top is undone and the zip’s run down. Yanti’s legs are splayed apart. Ngaaar … I buck in my seat. This guys fingers are too much to bear, and one just went inside my knickers. I lean to him again, my hands back round his forearm. ‘Please,’ I whisper. ‘That really disturbs me.’ But his fingers keep playing with my pussy, one of them in against skin, as he whispers back,
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