("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text Archive name: sari5.txt (mf, youth, rom) Authors name: Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com) Story title : Sari and the Worst of Summers -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial "free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- The Sari Saga: Sari and the Worst of Summers by Lor Oldmann (jamwad@hotmail.com) *** Sari becomes seriously ill and her boyfriend's success is somewhat soured. *** Sari called it the most horrible summer of her life. I suppose it all started with the death of my grandfather Jaksen. She had met the old man no more than a dozen times, but in her childish imagination he had become the epitome of stability and reliability, almost of eternity, especially after her father had begun to make himself scarce at home. It helped also that Grandpa Jaksen was excessively wealthy and had no inhibitions about flaunting what he had. He would take the little girl up on his knee and give her a detailed list of all his assets worldwide and indicate the ones she would probably inherit after she married me. He would also tell her stories of life long ago in faraway places. He had Viking blood in him, he told her, and he would show her how his ancestors bound important captives, like kings and princes, tightly to the masts of their ships and the less important prisoners-of-war, who were to be sold as slaves, to the oars. Sari, as you may have guessed, had a thing about tying, and being bound with ropes by grandpa Jaksen seemed to have reinforced the history lessons, for she used the tales with great effect at her schools and achieved enviable results. He also told her romantic stories about how he met grandma when they were still young children, and how they had vowed to love each other forever and a day. "Just like you and Lor!" he said. He told her how they were married when he was seventeen and she fifteen. They had been together ever since and never regretted a single day of their relationship. It was at the funeral, that Sari, dressed in appropriate mini-dress, sheer black tights and veiled hat, clutched my arm and demanded, "He is really dead? We won't ever see him again?" The impressive presence of death deeply affected her. I had the notion, not to mention the faint hope, that it would put an end to her tying fetish - a false hope if ever there was one. Tying up had become a longing to be possessed, thankfully by me, and an expression of real binding affection. Then there followed the Simon Pratt affair, and again I supposed she would have had her fill of bondage. Again I was wrong. Inwardly though, I did not object - not really. Sari was turned on by the Simon Pratt experience, and Sari turned on has to be seen (and touched) to be believed. She is still the most delicately and deliciously scented rose petal in my treasure house of memories. In rapid succession, before she had time to recover her breath, so to speak, Julie Pierce died while trying to abort her pregnancy. The news stunned the village. Sari had nightmares about it; she was extremely fond of Julie, who often partnered her in local tennis competitions. Julie had been so full of life and showed an enthusiasm for everything she did. Now, like grandpa Jaksen, she was dead! Dead ere her prime! Never to return! The clouds gathered. And Sari retreated. A few days after Julie's death, the body of a local schoolteacher was found hanging from a tree in Burke's Wood. Again the county constabulary invaded our property - our place is adjacent to the local woods - as a matter of fact, the local woodland is part of our policies. And again the nose-picking detective insisted on knowing where everyone had been for the previous two or three days, and again seemed skeptical to the point of insolent disbelief at the answers he received. Locally, although it was tacitly admitted that it was proper to wait for the coroner's report, everyone agreed that it was suicide, that it was remorse for the death of Julie Pierce, and that there was no doubt about it - he was the father of Julie's dead child, no doubt about it at all! The teacher, Hector Lansbright, had also been the coach for the local tennis club and had helped Sari improve her game. It was a well-known fact that he habitually touched up the girls he coached, but, except for the case of Julie Pierce, his advances were generally harmless enough and mostly taken as good fun by the 'victims'. I know that he felt up Sari on a couple of occasions; she told me so, but said that all the time he was doing it she kept thinking of me, and even admitted that she had encouraged his advances. Julie had boasted that Lansbright was her fianc‚e and that they were to be married as soon as she was sixteen. She had her parents' approval, she had said, and had already spoken to the local vicar and were taking instructions together. Cheri Kinnis went off to her drying up session. She was expected to be away for at least eight weeks. Sari moved in with us, into the bedroom she so seldom used - she had got into the habit of sleeping with me. I knew things were amiss when she occupied the bedroom on her own. We still went long walks, splashed about in the swimming pool, played tennis and squash, went riding a couple of times, all the usual things we did together. But it was obvious, her heart was not in any of these activities. Even my parents could see that something was not quite right. "What's wrong with Sari?" my mother asked. "She doesn't seem to be her usual ebullient self!" My mother had been a primary school teacher and used words like that, for real! And my father eyed me suspiciously and, in a tone that suggested I had better not have, demanded, "Have you been misbehaving with the child? Interfering with her?" The problem was not long in surfacing. It came during the first week of the long vacation from her school. A naked Sari woke me. It was more of an instinctive gesture than anything else: I glanced at the clock on my bedside table. The green digits glowed 03.17. Sari was in tears. There was a frightening urgency in her sobbing. Her whole body seemed to be vibrating. "Lor! I feel terrible," she said tremulously. She was shivering violently even though the summer heat in the room was stifling. I threw back the bedclothes. She climbed in beside me. I cuddled her as usual, then pulled away instantly. Sari was burning! I felt her forehead and her chest. It was as though she was on fire. I felt her pulse; it was racing. "Stay where you are, sweetheart!" I climbed from the bed, telephoned our local medical practitioner, and woke my parents. My mother, who had been a voluntary trainee nurse at one time in her youth, took Sari's temperature and examined her closely. We both knew that this was more than a slight summer fever. Sari had fallen into a troubled sleep and was jerking frenetically in short spasms. Dr. Simpson called for an ambulance as soon as he touched her. "I'm not going to make any spot diagnoses," he declared. "We'll wait till they look at her in hospital." He shook his head. "But I can tell you now: this is going to be serious. Indeed, I would say that the next seventy two hours will be critical." He shook his head sadly. It was a morbid underscoring of his words. The three of us took turns at sitting by Sari's bed in hospital. She had been more than seventeen hours under close scrutiny by men and machines. She had tubes and pipes all over her body and was wrapped up in a thick plastic restraining garment with her arms crossed tightly against her chest. "Why the straitjacket?" The note of aggression was irrepressible, but I was worried to the point of dementia. The consultant, white coated, stethoscope dangling from a torn pocket, was sympathetic. "It's not nearly as bad as it looks." He stroked Sari's hair, and I felt inclined to punch his face. "It's for her own protection!" Instantly, my mind flashed back to the time I first saw Sari bound up in sheets after the Halloween party. "She has a mild form of rheumatic chorea." I yelled. "St. Vitus' Dance?" My stomach took a dip. I felt sick. "Well, yes and no!" The man continued to caress my girl. "We feared the worst; we really believed it was a rheumatic fever brought on by a form of advanced Huntington's disease." He went on to describe the precise nature of her illness and the treatment she would require; she needed hospitalization and intensive medication for at least a week, and close attention at home for several weeks after that. "She should be fully recovered, back to normal by the time school starts again in the autumn." He pulled at the eyelid and pointed a torch at the pupil. "She has been heavily sedated and should be asleep for the next couple of hours. It would be advisable to have a face she recognises by her side when she wakes." "I'll be here," I assured him. "I won't be going anywhere!" He made to leave the room. He hesitated. "It may sound a strange thing to say." He retreated into silence for fully a minute. "But it has to be said," he decided. "She may require some kind of restraint when she gets home." He returned to the bed and jabbed at the straps of the straitjacket. "And this thing is so gross." He seemed reluctant to go on, but finally he said, "She will still have some of the indications of rheumatic chorea, involuntary jerking, for a week or so, especially when she gets tired, which may be slightly oftener than usual. It is nothing serious, I promise you. But you will have to be patient and tolerant with her. I recommend that you play some simple games with her with lots of close physical contact, like touch-tag or blind man's buff, coach and horses, that sort of thing. Tie her up occasionally! A piece of light rope around her arms and chest, or a leather belt about her legs should be sufficient." He elaborated for several minutes. He explained why he thought it necessary, and how it would help her recovery by making her feel secure and 'tied' to someone who really cared for her. He started caressing Sari again, brushing a few stray hairs away from her face. He faced me and exclaimed, "She is truly a beautiful child. You're a lucky fellow!" He eyed Sari again with obvious affection. Turning again to me, he said, "Appreciate her!" He made for the door and added, "While you can!" And that parting remark had me worried. In the days that followed, sitting by her bedside, there were three occasions when I really believed she was slipping from my grasp. Twice, emergency resuscitation had to be applied, and once she jerked and twisted so violently that I had imagined the death throes as I had seen them performed by Donald Wolfit in a film based on Shakespeare's Hamlet. I also saw the need for the physical restraint. I also started to devise games to make life a bit more interesting both for Sari and myself, if and when I got her home. And, I confess, for the first time in many years, I cried like a baby. I did not want to lose my childhood sweetheart. It was at that point that Cheri Kinnis, who had cut short her drying out session, entered the private ward. She held my head close to her mound of Venus and caressed. "Sari is a lucky girl to have someone like you, Lor," she said soothingly. "Someone who cares for her as much as you do!" She crouched in front of me and kissed me full on the lips. "I want to take her away," I replied through the tears. "I want to take her to some tropical island!" "That may not be as unlikely and far-fetched as you think, Lor!" There was an odd note of mystery in the way she said it. Sari's stay in hospital was longer than anticipated, but her convalescence went precisely as the white-coated medical consultant had predicted. Initially, during her first week home, she was uncharacteristically sullen. The first night home she slept with her mother, in their own house, but after that she insisted on sleeping with me. I had bought her a pair of Chinese silk pyjamas. A couple of times in the night she went into spasms of shaking and trembling. I held her tightly in my arms and she soon relaxed and went back to sleep. By the end of the second week in my bed, these spasms had all but disappeared. During the third week, as we prepared for bed, Sari discarded the pyjamas. "I think we have no further need of these," she said, and laughed, and climbed naked into bed. The relief was indescribable; it swept over me like an ocean breaker, washing away all the debris of doubt and depression. There was an air of certainty about it: Sari was going to be fine. It seemed months and years since I touched her last. Lady Cynthia was sweeter than she had ever been and for the first time ever in our long courtship, Sari's love juices poured down on my tongue. I cried again, from sheer joy! A couple of days after this return to apparent normality, Sari had a setback. The first post had brought an official government envelope. It had my examination results: seven straight A's, two upper B's and a C for art (which was neither my favourite nor strongest subject at my prestigious boarding school). I was overjoyed; the results were better than I had anticipated. 'Cum lauda' in maths and physics and 'distinction' in chemistry. There was little to complain about in that! But Sari was less than impressed. She sulked all that day and during the night there were several spasms. A couple of days later I received a letter of congratulations from the headmaster enclosing a little certificate, admitting me as a fellow former pupil of my prestigious alma mater, and stating that I 'had worthily upheld the traditions and the reputation of the school'. Tiny pools of tears remained in Sari's eyes all that day. The following day I received confirmation of a place in the Faculty of Science at Cambridge University, and Sari burst into an inconsolable sobbing. It continued unabated for another two days. "You will be away for years and years," she said through the tears, "and I won't see you, and you will fall in love with someone else, and get married and forget that I ever existed." "Now that is nonsense," I said as sternly as I could with Sari. "You know perfectly well that I could never love anyone else. You are the whole world to me. And I shall still be coming home nearly every weekend, and you will be coming to visit me as soon as I get settled in." Sari turned away from me in a frenzy of sobs and shivers, then swung back at me and held me tightly. "Kiss me," she pleaded. And when we broke away after a long, slobbering kiss, she sighed. "This has been the worst ever summer of my whole life!" *** ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of the hands of children. They should be outside playing in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Kristen's collection - Directory 19